


Mirror Flower, Water Moon

by h_lovely



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Adulthood, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Drinking, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Growing Up, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Probably Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Relationship(s), Sex and Alcohol, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Volleyball, gross married couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-05-16 22:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14819774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h_lovely/pseuds/h_lovely
Summary: Matsukawa’s gaze lingers on Hanamaki. He’s talking about something, ranting on and Matsukawa isn’t sure about what at this point. He should be listening really, how rude of him. But spring has just sprung and the little pink petals dotting the sidewalk match so pleasantly with the strawberry shade of Hanamaki’s short-clipped hair.(Or, a study on timing and how to get it right.)





	1. 鏡

**Author's Note:**

> [Mirror Flower, Water Moon ( _Kyōka Suigetsu; _鏡花水月) something that can be seen but not touched, like a flower reflected in a mirror or the moon on the water’s surface; something that is beautiful but not attainable, a dream, a mirage.]__  
>  __  
> [theme music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSBkoEWDTEk)  
>   
> 

Hanamaki’s breath is warm against his neck, puffing out each time Matsukawa’s thumb digs into the thick muscle of his thigh, swirling patterns where he holds him against the clubroom wall. 

They’ve been like this for an indeterminate amount of time now, tangled together, attacking each other with tongue and lips and teeth. The keys have since been tossed to the floor somewhere behind them, their lock-up duties shirked the moment Hanamaki’s hands had tangled into Matsukawa’s still-damp curls.

“Quiet or someone will hear,” Hanamaki whispers around a smirk when he grinds forward, eliciting a moan from Matsukawa’s throat. 

At this point, they both know each other’s bodies well and Matsukawa retaliates, trailing his tongue up to suck at the lobe of Hanamaki’s ear none-too-gently. He can feel Hanamaki’s cock hard against his own, both still trapped in layers of constricting fabric. 

Hanamaki groans, but the sound intermingles with laughter, fingernails catching at the sensitive skin of Matsukawa’s neck. It’s a sound that forces Matsukawa’s stomach to drop and his chest to cave inwards. 

This is nothing new, those sounds, these sensations. Matsukawa can still remember the first time Hanamaki had leaned into his space, those eyes alluring and his words laced with promise and a brand of nonchalance that Matsukawa couldn’t (still can’t) say no to. 

“I just need a little release sometimes, don’t you?” Hanamaki had said in his bedroom amidst piles of textbooks and half-finished homework. “Anyways, I trust you.” 

Matsukawa trusts him too, implicitly. They’re best friends after all, aren’t they? 

He leans in and sucks at Hanamaki’s lower lip, teasing it with his teeth just how he knows Hanamaki likes. The weight of Hanamaki’s body against him is pleasing, familiar. Matsukawa grinds forward, searching out that contact, searching out—

The metal walkway outside creaks with footsteps and Matsukawa startles so hard Hanamaki nearly falls to the floor if it weren’t for his naturally quick reflexes. 

“What the fuck—” Hanamaki sputters, but when the door swings open the words die in his throat and Matsukawa is already on the other side of the room making himself appear busy rustling through his sports bag. 

“Oh, you two are still here?” It’s Iwaizumi who speaks first, because Oikawa is too busy flicking suspicious eyes between Matsukawa and Hanamaki, the latter still sprawled half-leaning against the wall. 

Matsukawa forces his most neutral expression, meeting Oikawa’s gaze firm and pointed. “Forget something?” he asks, thankful his voice doesn’t waver like it is inside his head. 

It’s no secret that Hanamaki is extraordinarily comfortable with his sexuality, but Matsukawa has found himself in some kind of exploratory, limbo stage and even if Oikawa and Iwaizumi are his next closest friends he’s not sure he’s quite ready to let them in on whatever little arrangement he and Hanamaki have agreed to. 

He’s not sure he’s ready to admit to it out loud in any capacity, really. 

Oikawa doesn’t answer right away, instead studying Matsukawa in the same way he studies his opponents on the volleyball court. It’s a little unsettling being on the end of something so _knowing_ and Matsukawa can feel those narrowed eyes eating slowly away at his defenses. 

“Looking for this?” Hanamaki’s voice cuts Oikawa off abruptly and Matsukawa has never been more thankful to see his friend brandishing that obnoxious phone case, the alien sticker on the back shining under the room’s fluorescent lighting. 

Considering whatever the hell just transpired between them, Oikawa manages to switch himself back to annoying and bubbly in an instant, bouncing over to Hanamaki to snatch the phone up. “Thank you, Makki!” 

“We were going to get something to eat,” Iwaizumi says, hefting the bag on his shoulder before turning back towards the door as though he’d not witnessed anything at all out of the ordinary. “Want to join?” 

Matsukawa can feel the distinct ache of unfulfilled arousal swirling low in his gut, but Hanamaki’s already bounding forward. “I’ll never say no to food,” he says, grabbing his bag and appearing in no way as stiff as Matsukawa feels. “You’re paying right, Oikawa?” 

“Absolutely not, Makki—what do you take me for?”

“Please take care of me, Oikawa-san,” Hanamaki pitches his voice higher and flutters those thick lashes and it takes everything in Matsukawa’s power not to flinch. Oikawa however, manages a deep blush at the implication; with as charming as Oikawa can make himself become, it seems he’s still unable to ward off Hanamaki’s own magnetism, however dramatized. 

“Are you coming?” Iwaizumi’s voice trails from the walkway, falsely gruff, and Oikawa is quick to escape Hanamaki’s growing smirk as he scampers outside. 

The laugh that comes deep from within Hanamaki’s chest is a pleasant one, one that moves Matsukawa forward on impulse to drape an arm across his shoulders, like friends are often wont to do. 

“Come on, I’ll buy you extra gyoza,” he offers indulgently. 

Hanamaki wiggles closer into him, looking up to meet Matsukawa’s gaze with a half-lidded one of his own. “See, this is why I keep you around,” he says.

The words might have stung a bit if they hadn’t been said with that classic Hanamaki-smirk. Besides, Matsukawa knows better. “That’s the only reason, hm?” 

Hanamaki stiffens when Matsukawa traces his other hand down his side, close along his hip where he’d gripped him earlier. It’s a dangerous game, in more ways than one. The way Hanamaki leans further into his chest makes Matsukawa wish he’d not said anything at all. 

Together they exit the clubroom because they’ve always been touchy-feely, that was nothing new in the eyes of their friends, though Oikawa still manages to catch Matsukawa’s gaze sharply before he turns to lock the clubroom door and with it, whatever heat had been building between them. 

* * *

Even though they’d lost in the spring high semi-finals, the third years can’t seem to bring themselves to abandon practice. Oikawa tells them it’s because he’s been scouted by several university teams, but Hanamaki knows that _none_ of them are quite ready to hand over the reigns just yet.

The wound is still a bit fresh, but the sound of spikes against the gymnasium floor is cathartic in some way.

Hanamaki listens to the echoing pound of leather as he watches Matsukawa across the gym. He’s talking with Kindaichi, and Kunimi by default, shirt clinging a little to his back as he juts his hip out to rest a long-fingered hand there. Hanamaki tries to track Matsukawa’s lips, tries to read whatever words he’s bestowing upon his kouhai. It’s difficult and halfway through his attempts, Hanamaki starts to feel a little too distracted by something else entirely. 

“I heard you got accepted to Chuo,” comes a familiar voice beside him. “Congrats.”

Hanamaki turns his attention to watch Iwaizumi slide down the wall next to him, resting his arms on bent knees. His smile is easy and warm and Hanamaki can understand why Oikawa’s got it so bad (even if he won’t admit it, least of all to himself). 

“Don’t congratulate me just yet,” Hanamaki chuckles. “It’s on Oikawa’s short list.” 

Iwaizumi’s own laughter is kinder than it would have been if Oikawa had been present himself. “Wouldn’t be so bad,” he says. “It’s not like they’d force you to be roommates.”

“No, but knowing Oikawa that’s just how it would end up,” Hanamaki replies, and even if the words are resentful, there isn’t an ounce of actual hostility. 

It’d been a feat just to pass the entrance exams. Hanamaki knows he would be fine on his own there. But having someone alongside him, be it Oikawa or anyone else, wouldn’t be such a bad thing, he thinks. 

“So, you’re going to continue to play?” Iwaizumi wonders, moving to toss back a rogue ball to a second-string first year. 

Hanamaki shrugs, eyes wandering back to Matsukawa only to find him engaged in some sort of back and forth with Oikawa and Yuda that’s brought about his telltale smirk. “If I can make it.” 

A firm hand smacks down against his back without warning and Hanamaki startles. “You’ll be fine,” Iwaizumi says, voice gruff but Hanamaki doesn’t miss the sentiment there. 

He grins, feeling a little off-balance. “What about you? Oikawa mentioned—“

“I haven’t decided yet,” Iwaizumi interrupts brusquely, but when Hanamaki turns he sees a bit of pink dusting his friend’s ears. “I mean—a coach from Tsukuba reached out, so I’ve been considering it.” 

Hanamaki remembers hearing that Tsukuba’s volleyball team made it to the finals in the All-Japan Intercollegiate last year. It would be fitting for Iwaizumi to go to a strong school like that, and besides he’s pretty sure the campus isn’t too far from Chuo in Tokyo. 

“I would expect nothing less from our ace,” he says and watches Iwaizumi fumble under the praise. 

“And Matsukawa?” Iwaizumi wonders, hastening to swivel any attention to a new topic. 

Hanamaki pauses. Iwaizumi directs the question in such a way that it could mean anything if Hanamaki were to allow himself to read into it. He knows, objectively, what Iwaizumi is asking. And yet—it echoes back through his mind. _And Matsukawa?_ He’s not so sure. 

“Isn’t he up for academic scholarships?” Iwaizumi continues after an unknown amount of time had passed between them.

Hanamaki blinks and realizes he’s been staring off across the gym, studying hooded eyes and dark hair and unreadable lips. 

“Yeah,” he says and there’s a surprising amount of weight there. “I don’t think he’s decided yet either.” 

“Just wait, we’ll all end up in Tokyo together,” Iwaizumi snorts. “I’ll never be able to get rid of you three.” 

He’s teasing, clearly, but Hanamaki doesn’t think he’s ever heard Iwaizumi sound so genuinely hopeful before. He realizes, rather abruptly, that maybe he’s not the only one a little apprehensive of a future after Aoba Johsai. 

The low thrum of Kyoutani’s powerful scowl charges the entire gym as he turns at something Yahaba has said through a smile so eerily familiar. Hanamaki watches the way Oikawa pointedly doesn’t help and Matsukawa’s half-hearted gestures of placation and thinks he’s definitely not ready to give this up just yet. 

* * *

Graduation lingers on the horizon, something unattainable yet inevitable.

For now, Hanamaki is content to watch Iwaizumi chase Oikawa across Aoba Johsai’s central plaza, nose twitching with the sprouting buds on the trees he and Matsukawa have lunch under now that the weather’s been more forgiving. 

“Do you think they realize?” Matsukawa asks, sliding over a cold can of Aquarius as he moves to take his seat next to Hanamaki. 

Hanamaki’s eyes follow Matsukawa’s to where Iwaizumi has wrapped his arms around Oikawa’s waist, muscles taught against his rolled shirtsleeves. 

“I think maybe—” Hanamaki chews against a sore spot on his lower lip. “I’ll get a girlfriend before either of them admit anything to us or themselves.” 

Matsukawa chuckles and Hanamaki basks in the great irony of his statement and that sound as it rumbles up from Matsukawa’s chest and into his ears. 

These are the moments Hanamaki likes best. These are the moments he imagines he’ll look back on someday, fondly, when he’s so far removed from this time and place. 

Hanamaki shifts with the breeze only to find Matsukawa studying him, lips slightly parted as though another question rests on the precipice. He turns away before it can tumble out though and now Hanamaki’s the one left staring. 

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa squawks across the courtyard. A pair of brown doves burst out of the trees at the noise. 

Hanamaki can’t fight his grin, amused but so very fond. When things settle again, Matsukawa greets him with a matching smile and the bells chime an end to the lunch hour. 

* * *

Long lingering looks are for people in relationships. Sappy relationships, no less. Those hopelessly devoted, hopelessly— _hopeless_.

Even so, Matsukawa’s gaze lingers on Hanamaki. He’s talking about something, ranting on and Matsukawa isn’t sure about what at this point. He should be listening really, how rude of him. But spring has just sprung and the little pink petals dotting the sidewalk match so pleasantly with the strawberry shade of Hanamaki’s short-clipped hair.

So maybe he is hopeless, when it comes to one single person. 

They’re both so engrossed by their personal musings (internal or not), that they barely catch the soft, feminine voice calling out to them from behind. But when Matsukawa turns, a half-second before Hanamaki, he realizes the voice is not actually for _them,_ plural. 

A girl stands on the sidewalk a few paces behind, someone Matsukawa recognizes but can’t quite place. She’s definitely in their grade, maybe he’s seen her traipsing about with Oikawa’s fangirls once or twice, but he can’t be certain. She’s cute, as cute as someone can look in gaudy plaid, with long dark hair and big eyes. If you’re into that kind of look—which Matsukawa is, but he knows for a fact that the person this girl is here for is decidedly _not_. 

It’s a surreal thing to watch actually; Matsukawa’s gotten his fair share of confession letters over the years, nothing too extravagant and he’s even accepted a couple of dates, but watching the way the girl’s fingers tremble as she holds forward a pretty, lilac envelope—it’s _strange_. 

Maybe it’s because Hanamaki doesn’t immediately reject it. 

Matsukawa would like to think he knows Hanamaki well, perhaps better than anyone. But Hanamaki takes the letter, hesitant but still allowing that warm, familiar smile to play at his lips. Matsukawa knows that smile well too, but it’s got nothing on a patented Hanamaki-smirk. 

The girl says something that Matsukawa can’t make out, his body suddenly feeling like it’s been submerged, all surroundings and sounds coming at him through a thick film of water. 

Hopeless, he thinks, doesn’t even begin to explain it. 

“Wow,” Hanamaki’s voice finally cuts through his water-logged ears and Matsukawa blinks only to find Hanamaki back in front of him and the girl gone. “That was weird.”

Matsukawa can absolutely understand the sentiment, though Hanamaki looks significantly more pale than he usually does and the sight jump starts something in Matsukawa’s brain. 

“Did you,” he starts, not sure how to broach such a subject. “Did you accept?”

The envelope is still clutched in Hanamaki’s fingers, his name written in nice, neat kanji on the front. Matsukawa watches him, vision boring into Hanamaki’s profile until his friend manages to shake his head in answer.

“She just sort of ran off, I think she was embarrassed,” Hanamaki mutters and there's a trace of genuine guilt there that makes Matsukawa’s chest ache. 

“You told her you’re—”

Hanamaki looks up, eyes widened in unnecessary panic. “No— _no_ , I just told her I couldn’t accept,” he explains quickly. His eyes track across Matsukawa’s features and then back down to the letter. “Actually I told her there’s someone else, isn’t that lame?”

He gives a soft laugh, self-deprecating and something Matsukawa hasn’t ever heard before. Hanamaki smiles, but it’s neither his warm one or his smirk, just something plastic and bitter and it makes Matsukawa flinch.

“Let’s go,” Hanamaki says and he looks straight past Matsukawa as he shoves the envelope into the pocket of his messenger-bag. “You’re coming over right?”

It’s Monday, so they don’t have practice, and Matsukawa’s parents are in Nagano for the week. The question is one Hanamaki doesn’t even need to ask, but he’d felt compelled to for some reason, so Matsukawa answers anyways. 

_“Of course.”_

* * *

When they enter the Hanamaki household, toeing off shoes and muttering half-hearted greetings, they’re met with the low hum of alternative rock and Hanamaki’s older sister, Tamiko.

“How was your day?” she asks from her perch on a wood-backed kitchen stool, her voice lilting playfully but smile genuine. Matsukawa is sure he will never quite get over the fact that Tamiko is, essentially, her brother just with long hair and a college degree. 

Hanamaki shrugs and the gesture would be a casual one if Matsukawa didn’t immediately notice the stiffness in his shoulders. “It was a day,” he says, blasé. 

Tamiko frowns, thin brows furrowing. “Wow, I hardly ever get to see you anymore and that’s all you have to say to your favorite sister?”

Hanamaki fits her with a pointedly blank look. “ _Only_ sister.”

Matsukawa, being an only child, does not really understand all the intricacies of inter-sibling bickering, but he’s been an insider with the Hanamaki family long enough to know false from honest malice—he thinks. 

There is a soft smattering of freckles on Hanamaki’s cheek, dipping down close to the corner of his mouth, that twitch as his expression wavers. Matsukawa isn’t sure whether or not Hanamaki is fighting back a smirk or something sharper. 

“He got confessed to today,” Matsukawa says and he has no idea why, but the words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them. 

Tamiko blinks, lips pulling into a smile. “What, really?” 

“Issei—” Hanamaki’s voice strains around his given-name and Matsukawa’s skin burns cold all over. Why had he said that? Why had he betrayed that unspoken confidence between them? Was it impulse—or something else altogether? 

Tamiko doesn’t seem to pick up on the tension splintering the space between them. “Were you planning on keeping this from me, baby brother?” she wonders, grin not wavering. 

It takes Hanamaki a second to rip his gaze away from Matsukawa, but when he does he pivots to lever a half-hearted glare at his sister. “There’s nothing to keep, Tamiko.”

Matsukawa’s tongue itches with the urge to apologize, but all his mind can do is think of ways to divert from such a serious path. That’s what Hanamaki would do right? Of course, Matsukawa would like to think Hanamaki wouldn’t have announced something so personal without his permission in the first place.

Matsukawa breathes in, shifting just enough to gain back Hanamaki’s gaze. _I’m sorry for all this, really._

“Takahiro’s a heartbreaker,” he says as blandly as possible. He studies Hanamaki’s eyes, searching until he finds that little fissure of amusement he was hoping for.

“Well, we all already knew that,” Tamiko says and she reaches out to flick teasingly at Hanamaki’s shoulder. “So, you let them down easy?”

“As easy as I could without telling her that I am, in fact, a giant gay mess,” Hanamaki snorts, and he’s chuckling but Matsukawa can tell it’s still somewhat forced. 

The word _gay_ sticks in the air around them for a few seconds, humid and thick. Matsukawa knows Tamiko knows, though he’s not so sure about Hanamaki’s parents. Matsukawa supposes that if they were home, this conversation wouldn’t be happening anyways. 

Something clicks and Matsukawa thinks Tamiko’s finally realized the odd tension strung between them all. “It’s still cute, you should be flattered,” she says, trying for neutral. 

“All it did was make me feel awkward,” Hanamaki shakes his head and then, out of nowhere, shoves an elbow into Matsukawa’s ribs. “Plus, _he_ had to witness the entire thing.”

Matsukawa startles at the contact, turning only to find Hanamaki grinning up at him. _It’s okay, don’t worry._

“I was there in solidarity,” Matsukawa answers, rubbing at his side for show. 

“No, I just think she was so nervous she didn’t even notice you,” Hanamaki snickers and Matsukawa revels in the sound. 

“Everyone notices me,” Matsukawa says, serious. “I’m incredibly noticeable.”

Those hooded eyes roll high. “Now you just sound like Oikawa,” Hanamaki chastises. “But honestly, for a second, I kinda thought she was coming to confess to _you_ not me.” 

Matsukawa scoffs, his own eyes rolling this time, but Hanamaki cuts him off with an earnest expression. “Seriously, how many confessions have you gotten just in our third year alone?”

Something in Matsukawa’s chest rearranges and he tries to grin, tries to keep the air light and teasing. “I told you, I’m incredibly noticeable—”

“You are, and handsome and charming and mysterious,” Hanamaki nods, but his tone is distorting again. 

Matsukawa frowns. “Mysterious?”

“Yeah, girls really go for that kind of crap.” He laughs and it’s dark again, internalized and destructive. “You’re quite the catch.”

Again, it’s something Matsukawa has never heard from Hanamaki before and it’s enough to have him move instinctually closer to him, shoulders brushing. 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Takahiro,” Tamiko interrupts and her voice is soft, supportive like Matsukawa imagines it was when they were younger and she’d taken care of a scraped knee or a bad nightmare. “You’re a catch too.” 

It’s the truth, unequivocal, but Matsukawa can already see the denial deep in Hanamaki’s eyes. He opens his mouth to pick up where Tamiko left off, but Hanamaki’s already sliding away from the counter and heading towards the refrigerator, effectively cutting off the conversation in one go. 

“I’m starving,” he says, head hidden behind the open door. “What’s for dinner?”

“Mom left spicy curry,” Tamiko answers, though hesitantly. “There’s more than enough if you’re planning on staying, Matsukawa-kun?” 

She looks to him encouragingly, something left unsaid in her expression: _I didn’t mean to push him like that. You should stay. For Takahiro._

Matsukawa nods, not bothering to explain that he’d been planning to stay all along. 

* * *

“Calculus is utter bullshit,” Hanamaki declares, slamming his textbook closed once the last problem’s finally complete.

Beside him Matsukawa hums a soft agreement, but Hanamaki knows better than to believe it; Matsukawa is, after all, the one who’s helped him stay afloat all year. He’s always had a brain for numbers and things Hanamaki can’t quite wrap his head around.

They’re both sitting on Hanamaki’s bed, a bit too small for them now with their extra height and Matsukawa’s newly broad shoulders. A few years doesn’t seem like enough time for them to have changed so much, but Hanamaki feels certain that the space between them on his bed has grown smaller and smaller as time’s gone by. 

He leans over, hanging halfway to the floor to grab his school bag, and not quite quick enough to catch the few stray papers that fall from the open side pocket. Something lilac and soft catches Hanamaki’s gaze, but it’s Matsukawa’s fingers that beat him to the envelope first. 

“Sorry,” Matsukawa says almost immediately as Hanamaki looks up. He’s holding the confession between thumb and forefinger like he’s trying to be delicate, even if the edges are already a bit crumpled. 

“Oh,” Hanamaki blinks and he doesn’t even know really why Matsukawa is apologizing, there’s a slew of possible reasons but Hanamaki thinks he doesn’t need to apologize for any of them. “Thanks.”

He takes the envelope back, tucking it into the recesses of his bag, the gratitude awkward and unnecessary on his tongue. 

“Sorry,” Matsukawa says again, only this time his muscles look a little less tense. “About earlier. I shouldn’t have said anything to Tamiko.”

“No, it’s alright.” He shakes his head and really, it’s true. “Knowing her, she probably would have found out anyways.” 

Hanamaki appreciates the sentiment here, but he really doesn’t want to have this conversation, not with Matsukawa, not with _anyone_. He swallows, wracking his brain for something else to say, something trivial and distracting, but he can’t seem to think about anything other than the way Matsukawa’s fingers had trembled as they’d held onto that gaudy, lilac stationary. 

He has the strangely weird urge to lean over and kiss him, but Hanamaki holds back mostly because his door is open and he can hear Tamiko down the hall, but also because it wouldn’t be fair—to Matsukawa or himself, he’s not entirely sure at this point. 

Their arrangement is one of convenience, Hanamaki likes to tell himself, even though that sounds like utter, psychological bullshit really. 

“I’m hungry,” he declares loudly to his room, because if he can’t satisfy one natural urge without feeling guilty, then why not try to fill the void with another? 

Matsukawa’s eyes flick lazily to the clock at his bedside. “You ate like an hour ago.” 

Hanamaki channels his best Oikawa pout and throws his bag unceremoniously to the floor. “Not dessert,” he says. “Issei, I always have room for dessert.” 

He really likes the way Matsukawa seems to melt under his gaze, even if he’s acting a bit petulant and obnoxious. It’s unfair, the way Matsukawa regards him so wholly, so openly like this. 

“I think Lawson has a new flavor of roll cake,” Matsukawa answers after some time and his voice is so indulgent and warm it takes Hanamaki a minute to even hear him. 

The image of sweet, creamy cake vies for the image of Matsukawa leaning forward to press a kiss against his slack mouth. He would let him too, Hanamaki thinks. 

But—that wouldn’t be fair. 

“You’re a mind reader,” Hanamaki says, instead of any of the other stuff slushing around at the back of his head. 

Matsukawa grins and that’s enough for Hanamaki anyways. 

* * *

Matsukawa Issei has been a fixture in Hanamaki’s life for going on three years now, so it only makes sense that they share things like t-shirts and study guides and the occasional deeply introspective conversations late-night on the roof.

It takes Hanamaki a minute to even notice Matsukawa leaning out his open window, observing him with that cool expression of his. From where Hanamaki is perched, knees drawn up to his chest and feet digging against the resin tiles, he can see the way the full moon’s bright light captures the dips and shadows of Matsukawa’s face, his sharp nose, those thick brows, that curved mouth. He’s handsome, Hanamaki could never (will never) deny that. 

“Hey,” Matsukawa says to break the silence. In the distance somewhere a night heron calls out through the trees. 

“Hey,” Hanamaki breathes back, his voice a lot heavier than he expects. “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.”

Matsukawa just shrugs and makes to join him, his forearms stiff and muscles prominent when he leans out against the sill. 

They haven’t done it in a while, but it’s not the first time they’ve sat together on this roof. If Hanamaki’s parents knew they’d probably chastise him, but he’s always liked the view out his bedroom window and it’s even better when not obscured by glass panes or those greenish curtains he’s had since he was a kid. 

The way the house sits up at the top of an incline, Hanamaki can just make out the tall gates of Aoba Johsai and beyond the trees a few flickering lights from downtown. Above, the sky glows indigo, what stars he can see speckling out and filling up all the spaces the city lights cannot reach. Shining freckles against dark velvet. 

“Something on your mind?” Matsukawa’s voice trickles into Hanamaki’s ears, warm and pulling Hanamaki’s gaze back from the illusionary sky above. 

“What makes you say that?” he asks absently. 

“Things have just been—” Matsukawa hesitates. “ _Different_ lately.” 

Hanamaki reads the words for what they really are: _You’ve been different lately. Why? What can I do to help?_

He doesn’t deserve Matsukawa, he doesn’t—

“You’re in your own head again, I can tell,” Matsukawa interrupts so quickly that really, Hanamaki barely manages to sink into his own thoughts at all. 

Strangely, Hanamaki’s brain flashes to the image of the university brochures strewn about on the clubroom floor where they’d been left by various third years since last April. They too had become a fixture in Hanamaki’s life, along with his teammates, along with Oikawa’s loving nicknames and Iwaizumi’s false penchant for violence. The satisfying smack of leather against his palm, the colorful forests of washi paper streamers during Sendai’s Tanabata Matsuri, the spare futon that lives in the hallway closet. 

“When that girl approached me today,” Hanamaki says, voice quiet to his own ears. “I don’t know why, but for a second or two I felt compelled to accept.”

Matsukawa hums in response—a low, familiar sound—no words but Hanamaki doesn’t need any. 

“It’s just—we’re graduating soon, going off to university, becoming functioning adults—“

“Hardly,” Matsukawa drawls. “I don’t think you’ll ever be able to be a functioning adult, Hiro.”

Hanamaki is actually inclined to agree with him. He smiles, soft but he knows Matsukawa can see through him, straight to what lingers beneath any false bravado. “You’re probably right,” he says. “But I’m still not giving up on my Grand Master Plan.”

The words nearly stick to his tongue, never having been admitted out loud before. 

“Sounds—” Matsukawa makes a point of pretending to think hard on his choice in words. “— _ambitious_.”

“Don’t joke,” Hanamaki shoots back, though he can’t hide his own amusement. He’s actually starting to feel a bit self-conscious; he hadn’t been expecting to have this conversation with Matsukawa just yet, if ever. “It’s serious, I’ve got a timeline and everything.”

Matsukawa turns further into him, jostling his knee into Hanamaki’s, but his features and voice are finally settling on genuine. “Really?” he prompts, slow and careful. 

Hanamaki appreciates the caution, though he can still feel the way his face heats up with Matsukawa’s undivided attention. “Graduate in four years, settled-down in five, steady job I don’t resent, a nice house with a big yard—“ he pauses, fitting Matsukawa with a serious look. “—for the dogs, you know.”

“The dogs,” Matsukawa repeats, incredulous smile worming its way onto his lips.

And Hanamaki really should be taking advantage of his own honest humor, the break in this weighty conversation, but all he can do is imagine the way those lips feel against his skin, his neck, his mouth— 

“Seems like you’ve really got it all planned out.”

When Matsukawa’s words finally break through Hanamaki’s nebulous thoughts he finds the man watching him patiently, but no less thorough. 

Hanamaki’s mouth feels dry, his tongue heavy behind his teeth. “You probably think it’s stupid,” he mutters, looking away because the expression flashing across Matsukawa’s face is too much for him to handle.

“I didn’t say that,” Matsukawa replies softly, but Hanamaki can tell that the ( _wrong_ , he knows it’s _wrong_ ) assumption was a little unnecessary. 

“I’ll admit, it is a little dumb,” he continues on anyways, unable to stop himself. “Wishful thinking. It’s something little kids do when they’re ten years old and dreams seem like these real, attainable things.” 

“It’s not dumb to have dreams, Hiro.” Matsukawa’s voice pitches low, sober. “I think five years is a little tight. Why put an expiration date on your Grand Master Plan?”

A car engine rumbles somewhere down the street and Hanamaki studies the pale moon-glow of his skin against the dark roof tiles. 

“I don't know, feels like five years is an eternity at this point,” he says, finally. “What about you? Where does Matsukawa Issei see himself in five years?”

“Twenty-three years old,” Matsukawa answers without missing a beat.

Hanamaki can’t stop his snort at that, turning sideways to give Matsukawa a look. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, I’m a realist,” Matsukawa inclines his head. “How about this—in five years from now if you’ve fulfilled your Grand Master Plan I’ll—” he pauses, mid-thought and stares off somewhere past Hanamaki’s shoulder. 

Hanamaki, impatient as ever, furrows his brows and tries to reign in his amusement. “You’ll— _what?_ ” 

“I don’t know, I’m thinking.” 

Hanamaki does smile at that. “What, is this some kind of bet?”

Finally Matsukawa’s eyes drift back to him, mirror-like in the nighttime between them. “Sure, we can call it that.”

Hanamaki let’s his smile grow, just a little further. “How about twenty thousand yen?”

“Twenty thousand? In five years I may be stuck moving back in with my parents for all we know.” Hanamaki doesn’t miss the fact that in Matsukawa’s hypothetical view of the future, Hanamaki is the one to have won the bet. 

“Or you could be a successful millionaire business mogul.” Hanamaki shrugs, like it’s obvious. “What are you going to study again? Statistics?” 

“I don’t think a degree in statistics is going to get me any sort of mogul status” Matsukawa says and then, “How about a drink.” 

“A nice drink, something top shelf,” Hanamaki adds, all-business, before extending his hand. 

Matsukawa doesn’t hesitate, not for a second, before reaching out to clasp his hand against Hanamaki’s. “Deal.”

Hanamaki has the uncontrollable urge not to let Matsukawa’s hand slip from his own, but he lets go anyways.

He thinks this is the end of the conversation; there’s a finality to it and beside him Matsukawa has gone silent. Hanamaki breathes in the night air, growing sweeter with each passing day into spring. He has to control himself against a shiver when the breeze picks up to remind him that he’s still dressed in only a thin sweatshirt and sleep pants. 

“So, settled down in five years huh?” Matsukawa wonders eventually, after some time has passed between them, not uncomfortably. 

Hanamaki raises his shoulders lazily, trying not to let Matsukawa see how stiff the question has made him. “Sure, why not?”

“I’ve just never taken you as someone who’d want to be tied down,” comes the answer and Hanamaki has the feeling he might aught to be offended, but the way Matsukawa says it isn’t in any way confrontational. “You’ve always been a free bird, Hiro.”

Something lingers beneath those words, something Hanamaki can’t quite suss out. He shrugs. “Monogamy doesn’t seem too bad.” He pauses, swallows. “It would be nice to spend forever with someone. The right someone.”

It’s the truth, something he’s never admitted to anyone before, but the truth just the same. He doesn’t turn, but in the haze of his peripheral Hanamaki can just make out Matsukawa’s nod of understanding. 

“It would be,” Hanamaki hesitates, not sure why. “Nice, I think.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a relationship study in four parts. I wanted to write soft, slice-of-life angst and developing relationships over a longer period of time. It's a little different than my usual stuff, but I really hope you can enjoy it as much as I'm enjoying writing it because it has grown to become something very important to me in a short amount of time. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. <3


	2. 花

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But maybe, what he misses most of all, is Hanamaki, that seventeen year old version of himself that was so laid back and sure of life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [theme music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-v54kenYNw)   
>    
> 

Over the years, things haven’t changed all that much. 

Twenty-one year old Hanamaki is the type of person to wear (overpriced) torn up skinny jeans on Saturday and then complain to Matsukawa on Monday that his favorite (cheap) sweats are going worn in both the knees. He’s the type of person who orders zundamochi and beef tongue (simultaneously) when they take the train to Sendai on breaks. He’s the type of person who still willingly challenges Iwaizumi to arm wrestling almost anytime they see each other outside of the volleyball court. 

He’s still not a morning person. He still steels Matsukawa’s clothes whenever he gets the chance. He’s grown not one centimeter since they’ve graduated high school and Matsukawa (191.2 cm) will never let him live it down. 

In short, twenty-one year old Hanamaki is more equivalent to his eighteen year old self than anyone Matsukawa knows, save for one thing. 

“Yeah, well the only reason coach put me in was Sato’s ankle,” Hanamaki is saying, picking away at the sesame seeds on his cheeseburger bun. “It was great and we won, but I’m not going to get comfortable on the court.” 

When they were younger this sort of thing would have been said in a joking, sarcastic manner. Now Hanamaki’s voice is void of most anything other than self-deprecation and whatever light Matsukawa used to see reflected in those grey irises has since been replaced with something neutral and bitter. 

Twenty-one year old Hanamaki talks about things like volleyball and relationships with an edge of cynicism that only comes with years of rejection and reality and it makes Matsukawa’s chest cave whenever their conversations fall into a nosedive like this one. 

He shouldn’t have brought it up, probably. But over the nearly four years Hanamaki’s spent clinging to a position on Chuo University’s volleyball team, he’s only started a handful of times. It’s much different than it was back in high school, even though he’s still got Oikawa to rely on. Though Matsukawa suspects that oftentimes seeing just how far Oikawa has come himself, doesn’t do much for Hanamaki’s rather volatile pride. 

It’s the first time seeing each other since their meager summer breaks had started and Matsukawa had insisted on sharing greasy burgers under the thick greenery of the platanus tree in Meiji’s Hidamari Plaza. Now, as they sit together and stew in the new tension and sticky August nighttime, Matsukawa thinks maybe he should’ve let Hanamaki pick after all. 

And then, just when Matsukawa thinks he knows Hanamaki so well—

“Issei, do you consider me high maintenance?”

The question is so out of the blue that Matsukawa has a hard time wrapping his head around it at first. He blinks, looking up to find Hanamaki watching him carefully for an answer. The bitter glaze of his eyes has been replaced by genuine curiosity and, if Matsukawa isn’t mistaken, some amusement (probably at his own expense somehow). 

“Define high maintenance,” Matsukawa answers slowly, once the whiplash has mostly dissipated. “Like ‘Oikawa high maintenance?’” 

Hanamaki wrinkles his nose a bit at that, but Matsukawa can see where his lips are trying to hold back a laugh. “No, like,” he pauses a moment to consider. “Like do you find me _emotionally needy?_ ” 

The words sound practiced, not something out of Hanamaki’s own repertoire, like they’d been said to him and now they were stuck in his brain, indelible. 

Matsukawa thinks maybe this has to do with whatever guy Hanamaki had been dating last, the one that had broken up with him last week, the one Matsukawa wasn’t supposed to know about but did anyways because Oikawa is a nosy shit that can’t keep anything to himself. 

Suddenly, Matsukawa wants to go back to listening to Hanamaki drive himself into the ground over college volleyball. 

“I don’t think you’re high maintenance, Hiro,” Matsukawa says, treading carefully. He avoids the words _emotionally needy_ like the toxic bullshit they are. “I think you have high standards and you don’t settle.” 

It’s clear right away that Hanamaki hadn’t been expecting that sort of answer. He averts his gaze, runs fingers over the condensation of his carbonated drink can. “High standards, hm?” 

Matsukawa has dealt with this before, knows that Oikawa certainly has as well. Up until lately Hanamaki’s love life hadn’t been much of a secret, but it had always been fluctuating, unpredictable, like Hanamaki himself. 

“If someone thinks you’re needy then they’re not the one,” Matsukawa states and it’s risky to be so blunt, but necessary to prove the unspoken point between them. 

“How did you know,” Hanamaki starts, still not bothering to look up from the wetness clinging to his fingertips. “That Yamasaki was the one?” 

Matsukawa freezes, unable to stop himself. Yamasaki Naomi’s image flutters into his head, a snapshot of the day trip they’d taken to Hakone in the fall when she’d worn her hair in a soft braid, the sun highlighting her freckled cheeks. He’d kissed her that day near a red torii gate. 

“I—she’s—” but the words are stuck in Matsukawa’s throat. _She’s not_ he wants to say, but is that really the truth? 

By the time the ringing in Matsukawa’s ears comes to a halt, the moment has vanished and Hanamaki’s already halfway through to a new topic of conversation. 

* * *

Hanamaki meets Oikawa at a cafe on an off-day from summer training, the air thick with lingering humidity and a few morning glories still blooming vibrant blue and pink beneath the shop’s striped awning.

Across the table he watches as Oikawa’s coffee turns milky with all the cream and sugar he’s stirred in. Even though Hanamaki himself takes his coffee much darker than that, he’s developed an astounding sweet tooth over the years, so this is the one thing he won’t make fun of Oikawa for, all things considered.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” Oikawa hums. “Do you miss me that much already?”

Oikawa has just recently moved out of their shared apartment and in with Iwaizumi ( _“Platonically, Makki!”_ ), leaving Hanamaki to downsize and Matsukawa to help him move into the smaller unit down the hall. 

“It’s only been a week and who knew a kitchen could actually stay clean,” Hanamaki answers around a smirk. “Besides, I see your ugly mug everyday at practice.”

“Mean, Makki,” Oikawa whines. 

Hanamaki shakes his head, swirling a single packet of sugar into his black coffee. “It’s not mean, it’s just my honest opinion. You should really be used to it by now, Oikawa.” 

Hanamaki knows how far he can push Oikawa; he’d found the sweet spot during their first year living together in the dorms. And even though Oikawa pouts and fusses, they both know the teasing is all bark and no bite—like the way Iwaizumi still occasionally threatens Oikawa with a punch all-the-while making heart-eyes he thinks no one can see. 

Smiling at the thought, Hanamaki studies the steamy condensation that clings to the rim of his mug. “Can’t I just want to get coffee with my friend?” 

Oikawa eyes him, feigning suspicion. “I’m just used to you by now, I guess,” he smirks. “I’m waiting for the ulterior motive.” 

Hanamaki snorts as his own words are thrown back at him with Oikawa’s sharp wit. And maybe, he thinks, there is an ulterior motive buried somewhere and even if he won’t admit it, things have been a bit lonely living by himself. 

Oikawa, because he’s Oikawa, somehow manages to read between the lines like he’s done since they were scrawny first years. “So,” he says pursing his lips to blow at his creamy drink and appropriately diverting the conversation in another direction. “Have you thought anymore about my offer?”

Hanamaki’s eyes roll and he makes a sour face. “I’m not letting you set me up ever again.”

“It was _one_ time, Makki,” Oikawa throws back, brows furrowing and wrinkling the lines on his forehead Hanamaki knows he’s not supposed to poke at, but does so anyways. 

At the touch Oikawa flinches back, swatting at Hanamaki’s offending hand and consequently making the lines grow deeper. Hanamaki offers him a toothy grin. “Still not happening. I don’t do blind dates.” 

“They can be fun,” Oikawa argues, arms crossing over his chest petulantly. “Just last week Yamasaki-chan set me up with such a cute girl—”

Hanamaki kicks out at him under the table to cut off whatever other bullshit he was planning on saying. “And what did your new roommate have to say about that?” he asks pointedly, instead of dwelling on _Yamasaki-chan_. 

“What does Iwa-chan have to do with anything?” Oikawa asks airily, but there’s a tiny crack in his voice that Hanamaki’s been working on chipping away at the past few years. 

Hanamaki shakes his head. “You’re an idiot,” he says, scrutinizing the way Oikawa won’t quite meet his eyes. “Or maybe _I’m_ an idiot.”

“Your words, not mine.”

Oikawa’s still not looking at him and Hanamaki has to fight the urge to kick him in the shin again. “I can’t believe you’ve roped Matsukawa’s girlfriend into your fan club.” The word _girlfriend_ sits heavy on his tongue, but he swallows it down anyways.

“I haven’t done any such thing,” Oikawa explains, finally meeting his gaze again. “She’s pretty and sweet. You know what they say, birds of a feather—“

Hanamaki doesn’t have the mental strength to resist this time, and Oikawa yelps when Hanamaki’s foot connects with the meat of his leg, exposed by a pair of too-small running shorts. “Makki! _This_ is why you need me to get you a date!” 

He doesn’t need anything, Hanamaki thinks, at least not anything Oikawa’s offering him. 

“Are you going to see that girl again?” he asks and Oikawa’s mewling stops abruptly. “The one Yamasaki set you up with?”

“Well,” Oikawa rolls the word around on his tongue and Hanamaki can practically see the gears turning in his head. “No. She’s cute, but not exactly my type.”

To anyone else Oikawa’s tone would sound picky, maybe even a little snobbish. But Hanamaki knows it’s just the truth. That girl definitely couldn’t be Oikawa’s type—just like the one girl that had confessed to Hanamaki back in high school hadn’t had a chance from the start. 

Oikawa runs a long finger against the handle of his coffee cup, eyes averted so that his lashes lay thick atop summer sunned cheeks. “Mattsun and Yamasaki-chan worked out,” he says, softly like he knows he probably shouldn’t be saying anything at all. “They met on a blind date, right? And they’re good together.”

Deep in his chest, Hanamaki understands that Oikawa’s just trying to help, but Hanamaki doesn’t know how to explain to him that no amount of blind dates, his type or not, are going to work out. 

“Yeah,” he answers instead, because really it’s true. “They are.” 

* * *

They play a match against Tsukuba right before classes pick back up.

Hanamaki knows that Oikawa’s been focused wholly on the Intercollegiate in December, but even if it is more of a practice game than anything, he’d been talking about this match incessantly since their coach had announced it. 

It’s no wonder, considering each and every time they faced Iwaizumi on opposite sides of the court, Oikawa couldn’t seem to reign himself in. It was like watching Oikawa revert back to his old high school self minus the teenage angst and aggressive hatred of opponents he could never quite grasp. It was stupidly endearing. 

“ _We motivate each other,_ ” he’d said once, in some dreamy explanation Hanamaki hadn’t asked for. But he understood, in some way, the far-off look Oikawa got when he talked about playing against Iwaizumi. 

_What about your own teammates?_ he’d wanted to snark back, but couldn’t find the heart to do it. Oikawa was no less a team player going against Iwaizumi than anyone else; he was like that, reliable, even if he himself didn’t always see it that way. 

They stretch and Oikawa leads the warm-up, having recently taken over the position of captain. Kuriyama had torn his ACL in a bad fall last month and so his duties had fallen to his vice. 

It had bothered Hanamaki immensely that Oikawa had been over-looked for the position in the first place, though Oikawa had taken it in stride. He’d changed these last few years, the bravado he’d left Aoba Johsai with having morphed somewhere between then and now into real, steady confidence. Hanamaki thinks, with no lack of irony, that Oikawa is probably the one that has grown-up the most out of them all. 

Hanamaki takes his time stretching but he still feels tense, some kind of nervous adrenaline coursing through him that he’d not felt back in high school, even when they’d played Shiratorizawa. And even though Hanamaki knows he’s starting today, there’s still this lingering weight in his chest; something anxious and unsure settling in his throat, threatening to choke him if he moves wrong. 

Oikawa’s set-up is perfect as expected, floaty and a little close to net just how Hanamaki likes them. The ball fits against his palm for that split second of contact, smooth and smacking sharply, until it slams down against the opposite court. The sound is a satisfying one and it loosens the vice around Hanamaki’s ribcage enough for him to breath out when he lands back down on his feet. 

He moves out of the way for the next drill, but not before catching Oikawa’s knowing glance masked behind his usual pre-game praise. Hanamaki knows he won’t say anything, doesn’t want to poke and prod and ruin any concentration, so Hanamaki stows that glance away to deal with later. 

The sounds of whistles and bellowing voices and jump serves squeaking against the court envelopes Hanamaki, doing their job at lulling him into a familiar mindset. He relaxes into the sensation of a ball spinning between his palms, catching his breath, and when he looks up he’s met with a set of watchful eyes in the bleachers. 

Matsukawa regards him blankly for a moment until his lips curve into a smirk that Hanamaki knows is meant to be a greeting, but Hanamaki can’t help if all it does is make his pulse pound erratic. Beside Matsukawa stands a girl, Yamasaki, nearly a head shorter but still tall with her long hair pulled up and away from her round face. Beside her too are a couple of faces Hanamaki recognizes easily: Yahaba and Kyoutani. 

“I didn’t know they were coming,” Oikawa says and his voice is genuinely innocent as he sidles up alongside him. “Did you invite them?”

Hanamaki doesn’t know if Oikawa means just Yahaba and Kyoutani or all of them together. Somehow his mind is having a hard time compartmentalizing. 

Through the east doors Tsukuba is just arriving, the deep purple of their jerseys eye-catching against Chuo’s navy and white. 

It takes less than a minute for Oikawa to call out to Iwaizumi and Iwaizumi, in turn, to pretend to ignore him. Hanamaki fits them both with a look. “Didn’t you see each other this morning?” he says, to which no one actually listens. “You know, in your _shared apartment_.” 

When Hanamaki looks back up into the stands, instinctually searching for some solidarity, he catches Matsukawa having settled into a conversation with Yahaba, a broad palm balanced on Yamasaki’s knee. 

The match, once begun, is not an easy win for either side. As expected. 

In his time at Chuo, Hanamaki’s watched more games than he’s played. In his first year he’d shared the ups and downs of wins and losses with Oikawa by his side. In his second year too until their starting setter had progressively deteriorated under the pressure and Oikawa had, rightfully, been called to the bench. Hanamaki hadn’t been promoted to second-string until his third year and even then his game time was limited, if any at all. 

Now, as their time as undergrads wanes with each passing day, he is finally starting to remember the satisfaction of a perfectly timed combo, Oikawa’s tailored tosses, and the practiced course of a polished jump serve.

Nowadays Oikawa doesn’t work himself into the ground, but Hanamaki would be remiss if he didn’t admit to indulging his friend in the occasional extended practice. 

On the other side of the net Iwaizumi slams a powerful spike through their blockers and for a split second Hanamaki’s fingers twitch to congratulate him with a well-placed smack to the hard muscles of his back. Beside him, Oikawa fits a breathless scowl at their opponents, but Hanamaki can read the admiration hidden there too. 

In the end though, it’s Chuo that pulls away faster after having already taken the first set. It’s an undeniably precision quick between Oikawa and their gangly, 196 cm middle blocker that brings them up to match point. When Oshiro’s hand lingers a bit too long in his excitement at Oikawa’s shoulder Hanamaki is almost certain he can feel the waves of annoyance flooding across the net from a certain 182.4 cm wing spiker. 

Their next serve is a powerful one, but Tsukuba’s libero digs it up easily and Iwaizumi gets his chance against Oshiro’s block head on. But his spike get’s caught this time and the glancing one-touch flies over the court at an odd angle, leaving their left to hit the ground in a flying fall that sends the ball up high, but not to the setter.

In that split second timing Hanamaki’s mind clicks, his body moving on muscle memory, and as the ball falls to him his fingers press up and out, setting it close to the net on instinct. 

And, like it’s nothing, Oikawa scores the winning point. His straight _had_ always been incredible. _Oikawa_ had always been incredible. 

A cheer rumbles up from Hanamaki’s chest and he rushes forward with the rest of his teammates, but his mind seems to have exited somewhere above them. He watches, bizarrely, the way Oikawa feigns humble under the praise, the way Tsukuba retreats to the endline slowly, the way Iwaizumi can’t quite hide that telltale smile under his own disappointment. 

In the bleachers, Matsukawa’s applause is the loudest, echoing out and swallowing up Yamasaki’s much softer claps from beside him. Hanamaki watches that too, the way she grins genuinely across the court, elated for a team not her own, for people she barely knows at all. 

_They’re good together,_ Oikawa’s voice settles into the back of his skull and it pulls Hanamaki back down, back to his body, to the opponent’s hand he reaches out to shake beneath the net. 

After, some of the team goes to a local place for yakitori and icy cold beer. Not surprisingly, Iwaizumi and Matsukawa and Yamasaki tag along with Yahaba pulling Kyoutani behind him. Surprisingly, a handful of Iwaizumi’s teammates follow after as well, a couple of them with that glowing admiration in their eyes that reminds Hanamaki of Kindaichi in his first year at Aoba Johsai. 

It doesn’t take long for Yamasaki to say her goodbyes for the evening, though she’d held her own considering how rowdy some of his teammates had gotten already. Hanamaki’s just finishing his first mug. 

Matsukawa makes to stand with her, but she just pats his shoulder firmly and insists that he stay with his friends, that the train station is only a block over. Hanamaki thinks, maybe she’s a little cooler than he’s given her credit for. 

She kisses Matsukawa chastely on the cheek, probably because they’re in public surrounded on all sides, and takes her leave with a friendly wave. Hanamaki pretends not to watch from the corner of his eye. 

“She’s cute,” Yahaba says after she’s left, making it sound like some long-overdue announcement he’d been holding in ever since the match earlier. Which, it probably is. 

Matsukawa’s brows lift and Hanamaki’s own furrow, but it’s Kyoutani’s deep scowl that snaps Yahaba out of whatever it was that had overtaken him. 

“I mean, for you,” he says, gesturing to Matsukawa with an awkward flush rising up his neck. “You’re cute _together_.”

That seems to satisfy whatever weird, jealous time bomb Yahaba’s statement had set off inside Kyoutani as his scowl softens, though he still manages to snake a possessive arm over the back of the former’s chair for good measure.

Hanamaki thinks, staring across at the two blankly, that he’s not sure how he’d missed _that_ all these years. Was— _everyone_ with someone?

Matsukawa doesn’t confirm or deny Yahaba’s observation or at least Hanamaki doesn’t hear it if he does. Instead, the next words he does make out are spoken low and close to the shell of his ear; a private thing. “Congrats on the win today,” Matsukawa murmurs. “I’m a little jealous I never got to hit one of your tosses like that.”

The statement probably doesn’t have any other meaning than surface level, but Hanamaki feels a rush of pride and regret swirl in his stomach anyways. 

They sit like that for a while, Matsukawa slinging half-lidded remarks and Yahaba regaling them with stories from Miyagi and Sendai University and Kyoutani’s father’s veterinary office (where apparently he’s been spending a lot of free time lately, surprise surprise). 

Hanamaki lets himself relax into the comforting buzz of alcohol and good company. Across the few tables they’ve commandeered he watches his teammates chatting just as lazily and their setter favoring his knee just a bit and consequently leaning into Iwaizumi at the bar. It’s funny to see Oikawa—petty, over competitive, unrelenting Oikawa—draped in Iwaizumi’s purple team jacket and chatting animatedly with Tsukuba’s libero. 

“Yahaba said that ever since they moved in together,” Matsukawa gestures towards the two at the bar, resting a heavy arm against Hanamaki’s shoulders. “Oikawa’s been acting strangely.”

“Oikawa’s always strange,” Hanamaki mutters back, though he thinks he might catch something different in Iwaizumi’s gaze as he watches Oikawa giggling at something they can’t hear.

Matsukawa purrs with agreeable laughter and Hanamaki’s head rushes a little as he tries to remember how many beers they’ve had. “I don’t know, I think maybe we should start taking bets.”

“On how long they’ve been sleeping together?” Hanamaki snorts, starting to feel especially warm under Matsukawa’s arm. “Or how long it will take them to tell us?”

Matsukawa just laughs again, deep and genuine, and soon they’re distracted by a heated debate between Kyoutani and Yahaba across the table. Oikawa and Iwaizumi rejoin them eventually and despite Hanamaki’s usual urge to tease, he finds himself sinking lower in his chair to observe and Matsukawa’s arm follows after him instead of letting go. 

* * *

“ _So anyways, basically Tamiko is guilt-tripping me into coming to Osaka for a couple days to take some of the pressure off herself. You know how my mom can be._ ”

During the breadth of their conversation Matsukawa’s cellphone had ended up on speaker sitting atop his desk as his eyes droned over the last bits of his summer-work paper for his Multivariate Statistics elective. 

Matsukawa hums, noncommittal, mousing over to save before closing his laptop altogether. His phone screen lights up the new darkness of his room, a picture of Hanamaki at the Sumidagawa Fireworks last year. 

“Is that such a bad thing?” he wonders, staring down at the contact photo and the way a particularly bright burst had caught against Hanamaki’s coppery freckles. Matsukawa does know how Hanamaki’s mom can be—a little overbearing, idealistic, but she always seemed to mean well. 

“ _It’s not,_ ” Hanamaki concedes. “ _It’s just—nothing’s ever quite good enough. They’ll be celebrating Tamiko and still my mom will find something to chide her about. ‘When will you have time to find a husband? When will you give me grandchildren? You’re not getting any younger.’ I can hear it already._ ”

“Tamiko doesn’t want you to feel left out,” Matsukawa says, trying for humor. 

“ _Hah_ ,” Hanamaki barks into the phone roughly. “ _She knows if I’m there too it makes her look like the shining, golden child._ ”

Matsukawa still remembers the way Hanamaki had looked when he’d come out to his parents just before they’d moved to Tokyo. How they’d spent their last night in Miyagi on Matsukawa’s bedroom floor, tangled in blankets and memories and nostalgia; he’d remembered Hanamaki on the roof not long before, self-effacing but still full of an optimism Matsukawa himself could never quite achieve. 

“I’m sure your parents are proud,” Matsukawa replies, in light of anything else. He can’t remember the last time he saw Tamiko in person, but he can imagine her pouring over grad-seminars and research papers, those square glasses slipping down her nose. “She deserves a lecturer position. That’s a tenure-track, right?”

“ _Of course they’re proud,_ ” Hanamaki pauses like he’s contemplating his next move. “ _And I’m going, because I’m proud too, but—"_

“But?”

“ _I don’t know, I just thought—maybe if you weren’t busy, we could make a trip of it? I’ll pay for your train ticket._ ” Hanamaki says this all in a voice that reveals to Matsukawa that he very much wants him to say yes, but he won’t be stooping to that level of begging. 

Matsukawa thinks maybe he should ask Naomi if she’d planned anything for the weekend, but instead he just nods unnecessarily in the darkness. “You don’t have to pay, I’ll go with you,” he says, something pulling the corners of his mouth into a grin. “In solidarity.” 

The words sound familiar as they leave his tongue, but if Hanamaki thinks so too he doesn’t mention it.

This is how Matsukawa finds himself taking the Shinkansen to Osaka on a warm Friday afternoon. The train is crowded, but not packed, and Hanamaki had brought chips and cans of UCC green tea so Matsukawa is content to sit and watch Hanamaki watching the scenery flash by through the sun-tinted window. 

When they get to Tamiko’s apartment there’s a set of futons already laid out in her meager living room and a conspiratorial smile on her face. 

“Mom and dad don’t get in till later tonight, I’ll pick them up,” she explains, making shooing gestures at the both of them. “Go now and be free while you can, they can wait till tomorrow to harangue you.” 

So without much more convincing, Matsukawa follows Hanamaki to the neon-glow heart of the city: Dōtonbori. 

“Remember in our second year, the time that Iwaizumi accidentally hit Mizoguchi with a volleyball?” Hanamaki asks as they wander down a street crowded with restaurants and bars and people. The sun has set enough that the sky flares purple-orange and the myriad of billboards and signs begin to illuminate around them. 

“He had meant to throw it at Oikawa’s head, but at the last second Oikawa ducked,” Matsukawa grins slowly, as the memory comes back to him. Hanamaki leans over to pluck the last golden Takoyaki from the paper container Matsukawa is holding. 

“At the time I remember telling myself ‘ _don’t laugh, you cannot laugh at this,’_ but it was nearly impossible,” Hanamaki says, smirking around a mouthful.

Matsukawa memorizes the way a flash signboard advertising Asahi Super Dry above them highlights Hanamaki’s features, the genuine happiness in his expression. “Iwaizumi had to run extra laps,” he adds.

“Yeah, but that was around when Oikawa tripped up the stairs at the spring pep rally.” Hanamaki sucks away a bit of sauce from his fingertips. “Nearly instant karma.” 

They stop at a small footbridge, leaning into the railing and admiring the way the lights reflect off Dōtonbori Canal. 

“When Oikawa forced me to help him move out,” Hanamaki says with an annoyance that Matsukawa translates as fondness. “He had all these boxes of stuff from back then; t-shirts and pictures, court shoes and old issues of Volleyball Monthly.” 

Matsukawa hums, leaning a bit further to find their own murky reflections. “No surprise, I’m sure he’d want to keep any article that praised him the way people did in high school.” 

Hanamaki makes a sound of agreement and then, “Do you ever miss volleyball?”

It’s not such a non sequitur that it should make Matsukawa pause the way that he does, but he pauses just the same. It shouldn’t be hard, but he doesn’t know quite how to answer. 

Matsukawa misses the time and the place, the camaraderie and the warm feeling of Iwaizumi’s palm smacking against his in the heat of a match or the endorphin high after winning in straight sets. He misses the incessant teasing of Oikawa and the wobbly, burning feeling in his muscles after a particularly grueling day of practice. But maybe, what he misses most of all, is Hanamaki, that seventeen year old version of himself that was so laid back and sure of life. 

And this present version is one he would not change for _anything_ , but still, sometimes when he listens to Hanamaki over the phone after another game standing on the sidelines, or before when he’d confided in Matsukawa after a breakup or a really horrendous date, he thinks: _What happened? When did things start to change?_

Matsukawa blinks and realizes that Hanamaki is staring at him, waiting for an answer to what seems like a simple question. But, is it really simple at all? 

“I miss playing volleyball with you,” he answers, finally. “And Iwaizumi and Oikawa and everyone. That’s what I miss about it.” 

Hanamaki nods a couple of times, quiet. He seems to understand, or at least understand the top skimmed layer of what Matsukawa is trying to get at, and for now that’s enough. 

They continue walking then and Hanamaki makes them stop to take pictures in front of the Glico Man sign. Matsukawa saves his favorite—Hanamaki with a goofy smile and his arms outstretched in perfect imitation of Glico-san, the ethereal neon from behind glowing his skin different shades of blue and red—as Hanamaki’s new contact picture in his phone. 

When all evidence of the sun has finally disappeared and the streets begin to hum even more vibrantly Hanamaki pulls Matsukawa into a kitchie 100 yen shop. They browse through trinkets and touristy displays and Hanamaki makes flippant, offhanded comments that have Matsukawa wondering why they’re both suddenly feeling a bit nostalgic tonight. 

“Surely you’re in the market for a cute new phone strap, Issei.” Hanamaki dangles a tiny maneki neko in front of him and all Matsukawa can do is laugh, as if the toothy smile Hanamaki is wearing has somehow short-circuited his brain. 

There’s a wall filled with brightly colored packages of all manner of candies and snacks and it reminds Matsukawa poignantly of cram sessions and the new, slightly intimidating sensation of freedom in their first year at university. 

“Here, for Yamasaki-chan,” Hanamaki says in his best rendition of Oikawa, but when Matsukawa turns to see the little pink ring in Hanamaki’s hand he feels an overwhelming sensation of reality coming back down to ground him.

He knows that it’s all in good-humor, that Hanamaki is just being playful, but he can’t help but imagine the deeper symbolism in that cheap plastic ring. 

“You’ve got a leg up on me already,” Hanamaki says, twisting the ring between his fingers absently and Matsukawa swallows against whatever he thinks that might actually mean.

He tries for genuine confusion, but there’s no hiding the strain in his voice at this point. “What?”

Hanamaki doesn’t answer right away, blinking down at that stupid piece of costume jewelry pinched between the pads of his fingers like it holds all the world’s answers. Except, it doesn’t and Matsukawa knows, when Hanamaki places the ring back on its respective metal hook, that they both realize that. 

“So far,” Hanamaki licks at his dry lips. “It doesn’t look like I’ll be able to tick all the boxes on my master plan.” 

“I thought it was a _Grand_ Master Plan?” Matsukawa responds without thinking. 

Hanamaki shrugs and the motion is far too practiced for Matsukawa’s liking, far too surrendering. “I guess it’s been demoted.” 

Matsukawa feels a thousand responses well on his tongue, thick and vying for his brain to pick just one, to pick the _right_ one. But he doesn’t get the chance, because in the blink of an eye Hanamaki’s mouth has curved upwards again in a smile that anyone else would find authentic, even attractive. 

“Come on,” Hanamaki beams, though he’s short a few watts compared to earlier. “I want to find that truck that sells melon-pan ice cream.” 

And Matsukawa has never been able to say no to him before, so how can he start now? 

* * *

Matsukawa has known Hanamaki’s parents for going on six years. They’re fairly ordinary people. His father works in an office, some sort of data entry, and in the evening can usually be found reading the day’s newspaper or watching the Rakuten Golden Eagles on Fuji TV. His mother is a neonatal nurse at Miyagi Children’s and works a lot of odd shifts, especially now that her own children are grown, but even back in high school it was a rarity for Matsukawa to run into her in her own home.

They’re ordinary, having lived in the same western style house three blocks down from Matsukawa’s own since Tamiko had been born, a well-kept Toyota Allion in the driveway and maybe, when asked, would identify as conservative. So, Matsukawa had always wondered, how had two people as extraordinary as Hanamaki and his sister been born in such ordinary circumstances? 

It’s Saturday morning and they’re meant to spend the day with Hanamaki’s ordinary parents, and yet Hanamaki has decided to wear his infamous, slightly-too-big pink t-shirt with the English words ‘ _stay weird’_ across the chest. 

“We’re going to Sumiyoshi-taisha today, Takahiro,” his mother says as she eyes him up and down across one of Tamiko’s rainbow painted coffee mugs, the irony apparently completely lost on her. 

Hanamaki stares at her blankly, like he used to do when Iwaizumi would pelt Oikawa with volleyballs across the gym, just waiting for coach to assign them extra laps. “Is there a dress code?” he asks, even if he already knows the answer. 

Anyone else might bristle under Hanamaki’s snark, but his mother stands her ground, though the smirk the interaction wrings out of her is soft and familiar and any tension Matsukawa had felt building between them dissipates entirely when Hanamaki’s father comes in wearing a threadbare t-shirt of his own. 

They take the Nankai Line to Sumiyoshi-taisha Station and it’s not terribly crowded, not like it would be in January during hatsumode. Matsukawa has never visited this particular shrine, though he’d learned about it in school, he thinks. 

The weather is warm and the air thick around them, sun beating across Hanamaki’s exposed neck and Matsukawa thinks maybe it’s already starting to color pink like his too-big t-shirt. Tamiko leads with her mother in front, their father trailing behind, leaving Matsukawa and Hanamaki together in the back as they walk the semi-circular incline of Taiko Bridge. 

“The last time I was here, I was thirteen,” Hanamaki says.

“A fun age,” Matsukawa hums in return. “All hormones and petulance.” 

Hanamaki leans to glance over the lacquer-red railing as they walk. “Is it really any different than now?”

Matsukawa grins, unable to stop it, watching Hanamaki’s careful footing as he continues to study the greenish water below. “At least now you have me.”

Turning, Hanamaki grants him an appreciative laugh. “How did I ever survive without you, Issei?”

Despite their back-and-forth and Hanamaki’s blasé attitude that morning, when they draw near the first of four shrine buildings, the atmosphere around them turns peaceful and unhurried. 

The grounds are beautiful and serene but as the three youngest observe Hanamaki’s mother and father pray at the last shrine, Matsukawa can’t help but feel a little out of place until Hanamaki’s fingers play at his wrist. As the bell of the shrine chimes behind them, he tugs Matsukawa through a red gate towards a tall cedar tree surrounded by a garden of rock. It’s fenced in with walls of slatted stone and a small torii gate strung up with colorful amulets. _Gosho-gozen_ , Matsukawa remembers. 

“When I was a kid I could never find all three,” Hanamaki says, gesturing towards where a handful of people are digging through what looks like a dried riverbed of stone. “ _Go, Dai, Riki_.” 

Matsukawa hesitates for a moment, watching Hanamaki tuck a hand between the rough stone slats, something alight in his eyes that Matsukawa hasn’t seen in long while. Cataloguing the image away, he joins Hanamaki in his search, the pebbles smooth against the palm of his hand and warmed from the midday sun. 

Matsukawa manages to find a small, purple-gray stone with _Go_ painted in black kanji first, much to Hanamaki’s (feigned) annoyance, and when Tamiko and their parents approach he plucks a _Riki_ painted pebble from a pile the woman next to him had since given up on. 

“How?” Hanamaki asks, baffled, and Matsukawa shrugs unable to keep a little smugness from his features that his friend scowls at. 

“When we were kids, dad had to drag him away,” Tamiko says at Matsukawa’s shoulder, something fond beneath the teasing tone of her voice. 

They continue their search, Tamiko joining in and indulging Matsukawa in a story about Hanamaki being chased by a Chinese goose on a trip to Kinkasan Island. 

“I was _five_ ,” Hanamaki laments, side-eyeing his sister while keeping his hands buried in the pebbles. 

“So that’s why you’re afraid of birds,” Matsukawa nods in studious understanding.

Hanamaki’s jaw shifts as he grits out, “I am _not_ —oh!” 

Pinching a stone between his fingers, Hanamaki studies the kanji briefly before turning it to show Matsukawa. “ _Dai_ ,” he says. “To go with your _Go_ and _Riki_.” 

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Tamiko mutters around a smirk, but Hanamaki ignores her, grabbing at Matsukawa’s own pebbles and guiding him past his parents who have since taken up polite conversation with a couple who look like they could be approaching at least a hundred. 

They walk back across the grounds to the chōzuya, the water pouring from a sculpted rabbit and into a large, stone basin. Earlier, they’d performed the purification rite, but now Hanamaki places the stones in Matsukawa’s open palm and ladles cool water slowly over the top of them.

“They say the prayers will be answered of those who collect all three,” Hanamaki murmurs, glancing at Matsukawa through honey lashes. “When I was younger, that was a really big deal to me.”

Matsukawa feels his lips purse, something off about Hanamaki’s words. “And it’s not now?”

“It is.” Hanamaki replaces the wooden ladle gently back in its place. “It’s just different now, I guess.” 

Matsukawa thinks maybe, if he tries hard enough, he’ll be able to read between the lines there, but Hanamaki is quick to distract him by tugging again at his arm towards the awarding office. 

They emerge with a 300 yen Omamori pouch, white with tiny teal flowers and golden kanji that reminds Matsukawa poignantly of Aoba Johsai. The amulet sits heavy in Matsukawa’s hand even though the pebbles themselves weigh barely anything at all. 

* * *

They celebrate Tamiko’s new position at a traditional restaurant sipping tea and sake on tatami mats in their own private room. Spread across the table are plates of katsu, tempura fried vegetables, and a platter boasting giant okonomiyaki.

Hanamaki watches Matsukawa picking gently at his udon with a pair of shiny black chopsticks, thinking if they were anywhere else, _with_ anyone else, that bowl would be clean by now. 

“Are you seeing anyone, Matsukawa-kun?” Hanamaki’s mother asks, straight out of the blue, and it takes all of Hanamaki’s internal strength not to shatter the ceramic cup in his hand. 

Beside him, thickly sauced noodles slip from Matsukawa’s chopsticks as he looks up in surprise to find that the attention of the evening has switched abruptly to him. 

For a second, a wildly distorted second, Hanamaki’s brain thinks Matsukawa will try to avoid the question altogether, maybe even say no just to guide the scrutiny away. But then—

“Yes,” Matsukawa says, nodding just enough to shift his messy curls. 

Hanamaki’s mother smiles, beams at him, from across the table. “You were always popular with the girls.”

Something in Hanamaki’s stomach lurches and he thinks, for a second, he may actually throw up right here on the tatami covered floor. Tamiko shoves a squat glass of water at him, but Hanamaki waves it off in favor of steadying himself by watching a thick, pink blush creep up Matsukawa’s neck. 

His mother seems not to notice anything at all, though Hanamaki can tell his father is cautious of the conversation, eyeing his wife and chewing carefully at a piece of grilled meat. 

Matsukawa opens his mouth to respond, but nothing makes it out other than a hesitant laugh. Tamiko dives quickly into a story of a failed blind date (which may or may not have been entirely fictional) just to change the subject. 

Under the low table Matsukawa pushes his fingers against Hanamaki’s knee, a little roughly, and Hanamaki’s stomach churns again, this time with something entirely different. 

* * *

In the remaining month of their second-to-last semester of university, with the last few weeks of summer heat invading their usual ramen haunt, Iwaizumi clasps Oikawa’s hand in his own atop the counter, a physical symbol of the confession just spoken aloud for, presumably, the first time.

It would be flattering, Matsukawa thinks, if not for the subject of the private confession being a bit anti-climactic. Also the way the petite waitress behind the counter watches the entire scene with measured understanding. 

“We know,” Hanamaki says in that appealing, dry way of his as he consolidates all of Matsukawa’s internal thoughts into two simple words. 

Oikawa’s eyes widen, an affronted noise bubbling in his throat, before Hanamaki leans forward, into Matsukawa’s side to face them both earnestly. “Congratulations, just the same,” he adds and Matsukawa relaxes under the new weight against his shoulder. 

Iwaizumi chuckles and it’s a pleasant sound, like when he’d first beaten Hanamaki at arm wrestling back when they’d first met. Matsukawa doesn’t miss the way his callused thumb swoops in broad arcs against the back of Oikawa’s hand. 

“How long has it been official, then?” Matsukawa asks, instead of slinging another joke or snide remark, and he can’t help but be a little endeared at the way Oikawa lights up at the prospect of finally bragging openly about their relationship. It’s nice to see them both so genuinely happy. 

Beside him, as Oikawa starts rattling off facts and figures that Iwaizumi almost immediately argues against, Hanamaki hasn’t yet given up his position resting against Matsukawa. 

They’re touching nearly from thigh to shoulder now and it’s quite a feat considering they’re still perched on those rickety stools they’d been coming to sit at since all four of them were freshmen, wide-eyed and anxious even if they’d never admit it aloud. This was a place they could gather together, inviting and warm with the sticky aroma of dashi broth and braised pork belly. 

Unconsciously, Hanamaki’s fingers twist at the hem of Matsukawa’s shirt where the stitching’s coming undone, his other hand still stirring chopsticks through the last dregs of broth, dotted with forgotten greenery. 

In front of him Matsukawa’s own bowl sits empty, his stomach content and full, but his chest feeling a bit hollow, wanting for something that won’t be found in the handwritten kanji of the menu posted up behind the counter. 

“We should celebrate,” Hanamaki decides, nodding in agreement with himself. “Plus we don’t have practice tomorrow.”

“Speak for yourself,” Iwaizumi says, though Matsukawa can already see the fissures in his resolve as Oikawa’s hand runs playfully up the back of his neck. 

“Iwa-chan goes to bed so early these days,” Oikawa explains, but there’s a strange purr to his tone that seems to be causing a sudden flush to rise on Iwaizumi’s cheeks. 

Matsukawa looks away, pointedly not imagining their newly shared bedroom, as Iwaizumi bites out an argument through his fluster and Hanamaki chuckles, sounding a little too pleased with himself. 

Despite the bickering, they end up at an izakaya tucked away near Shinjuki Station, the dim lighting tinted red from the lanterns hanging above them as they sit across from one another at a table just big enough for their drinks and a lazy elbow or two. 

“Okay, Matsukawa’s birthday this year—” Hanamaki drawls, pointing an unsteady finger across the table as he tries (still unsuccessfully) to nail down the timeline of Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s relationship, three lemon chūhai and counting. “—Oikawa didn’t make it home and told me he’d slept at his sister’s in Ueno.” 

Oikawa has always had a pretty decent poker face, but Iwaizumi’s been getting redder and redder in the face and it’s got nothing to do with the alcohol. “What is this, an interrogation?” Iwaizumi grunts, but he can’t hide the amused grin from his slightly loosened lips. 

So far there’s been no concrete answers, but Matsukawa can read people almost as well as Oikawa can and there’s no hiding the fact that the two had been obviously sneaking around for quite some time. He wonders, briefly, the reasoning there, but tucks it away quick enough behind the happiness he holds for two of his closest friends. 

On the table his phone buzzes against the polished wood, sliding a centimeter closer to the edge. A message blinks up at him and Matsukawa crooks his neck to blink back, not as affected by his drinks as Hanamaki, but still feeling a bit laggy. It’s something from Naomi, he realizes after a slow heartbeat. 

Next to him Hanamaki sneezes abruptly into his elbow, halfway still laughing at something Oikawa has said. It pulls harshly at something just inside Matsukawa’s chest, something he can’t quite translate. He should open the message, he should answer her. Matsukawa’s fingers hover over the glowing screen of his phone only to slide it off the table and into his pocket instead. 

Somewhere along the lines, as the night grows older, the conversation wanes. Coupled up as they are, two-and-two, and with a secret relationship no longer so secret, Iwaizumi and Oikawa across from them have settled close together whispering lowly (what Matsukawa can only hope are sweet nothings) to each other. 

“Don’t tell Oikawa I said this,” Hanamaki whispers none-too-softly as he leans into Matsukawa. “But they’re kinda cute.” 

Matsukawa turns only to be met with the classic Hanamaki-smirk that he so reveres, only this time it’s a bit more wobbly with intoxication. He’s lost count of their drinks some time ago though he feels remarkably sober when Hanamaki’s hand finds a heavy resting place against his upper thigh. 

It’s probably time to pay their tabs, but Oikawa seems content to slowly wiggle his way into Iwaizumi’s lap and Hanamaki is pleasingly warm against his side so Matsukawa thinks maybe one more round won’t hurt. 

Upon this suggestion Hanamaki turns to him, wide-eyed. “Do you remember our bet, Issei?” he asks and his words aren’t quite slurred, but this close Matsukawa can see the telltale glaze in his half-lidded eyes. 

“Bet?” he asks, even though he knows _exactly_ what it is that Hanamaki is referring to. 

“The Grand Master Plan,” Hanamaki informs him, studiously. Somehow he’s managed to arrange himself so that he’s no longer facing the two lovebirds who have since begun an indulgent make-out session across the way. 

Matsukawa nods, fitting Hanamaki with a thoughtful look. “I thought it got demoted.”

Hanamaki squints, clearly not recalling their conversation in Osaka. “I think it’s time you cash in your prize,” he says and Matsukawa practically flinches.

“What?” he blinks, allowing himself to totally fall under Hanamaki’s spell, but not understanding his words just the same. 

Hanamaki draws near, leaning in until their noses practically brush. Matsukawa has to remind himself, pointedly, that they’ve both been drinking and the tingling he feels throughout all of his limbs is a side effect of that and that alone. 

“I owe you a drink,” Hanamaki says, voice pitched low and warm, but his words decidedly cold. “Something top shelf.” 

Matsukawa’s head shakes at its own volition. “It hasn’t been five years yet.”

Before him, glowing in the bar’s lantern lighting, Hanamaki’s eyes look watery for the split second before he blinks. “I’m not good at math, remember?” 

Matsukawa hates that tone, that self-deprecating tone that seeps out of Hanamaki’s voice, unmasked only by alcohol and too many unbridled emotions. 

“It’s been nearly four years,” Matsukawa says anyways, despite the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth.

“Time flies or whatever, right?” Hanamaki snorts, shrugging though the movement is slow and measured. “It’s not going to happen. Four years, five years, it doesn’t make a difference.” 

Matsukawa thinks that in any other life, in any other circumstance, this would be the moment he should reach out and kiss him. But he doesn’t, because an unopened message from his girlfriend sits on his phone in his pocket and Hanamaki is the type of person who would rather heartbreak than sympathy. 

When Hanamaki waves down the waitress, charming and false, Matsukawa realizes that the dreams, the prayers, had been lost long before tonight. 

They share in two glasses of Hibiki 12 year-old that Matsukawa decides he hates the taste of on principle alone. Neither Oikawa or Iwaizumi seem to mind, as caught up in each other as they are, and Matsukawa has to swallow down his envy of them when he meets Hanamaki’s hollow gaze across his empty glass. 

“Take me home?” Hanamaki asks and his words slur together so much that Matsukawa thinks he must have been faking it before. 

Upon their goodbyes, the train car they take is nearly empty but Matsukawa still can’t bring himself to wrap his arms around Hanamaki’s waist like his foggy, betraying mind urges him to. 

Hanamaki’s apartment is only one stop away from his own and Matsukawa can still remember the days when he and Iwaizumi both would lead Oikawa and Hanamaki home at all hours of the night when they’d all first turned legal. Now it’s just the two of them and Hanamaki’s apartment is just a small studio on the east corner of his building. 

“Issei,” Hanamaki says, muffled with his full weight against Matsukawa’s side as they take the stairs to the second floor. “I think maybe I’m jealous.”

This is something Matsukawa shouldn’t touch, but somehow he feels obligated to respond. “Of Oikawa and Iwaizumi?” he replies, soft and not-judgmental. 

But Hanamaki’s head shakes where it’s stuck against his chest and Matsukawa freezes just before they get to Hanamaki’s front door. “No, I think—of someone else.” 

Matsukawa really does not want to entertain any of his thoughts on the subject, instead wrapping his free hand against the hot skin of Hanamaki’s neck. “I think, Hiro,” he says, cautious. “It’s time for bed.” 

Hanamaki tilts his head back until he meets Matsukawa’s gaze and his eyes are wide and much clearer than they’d been only moments before. “I miss you, Issei,” he whispers, barely audible, and Matsukawa has no idea how to respond.

His throat tightens, impossible to swallow. “I’m right here,” he answers, tongue heavy and numb against his teeth. 

And then, Hanamaki’s pressing lips against his, the faint taste of whiskey shared between them as Matsukawa opens his mouth to accept the kiss, the world outside them entirely forgotten. 

Matsukawa’s tongue traces along the plush line of Hanamaki’s lower lip, familiar with the nails scratching nonsense patterns up his arm and the teeth nipping at his warm mouth. It is just how he remembers, but also— 

Matsukawa pulls away, gasping into the thick air swirling between them. “Hiro, we can’t—”

Hanamaki’s eyes are averted, facing the floor and their staggered feet. “I know,” he says, speech still slurred, but Matsukawa can hear the clear resignation in his voice. 

Matsukawa is the one to unlock his door, Hanamaki’s fingers shaking too heavily, and he would rather not think about why that is. 

When Hanamaki strips down to his underwear, Matsukawa shifts his gaze unnecessarily, but the molten guilt and regret pooling in his stomach forces him to do it nonetheless. Once he’s in bed, under the covers, Matsukawa finally lets his eyes fall back from the low ceiling above to find Hanamaki’s breathing already even and calm with sleep. 

There’s the bluish beginnings of a fresh bruise blooming across the milky skin of Hanamaki’s forearm from a particularly harsh receive. Matsukawa moves closer, against all reason, to run a fingertip above the mark, just close enough to feel the heat of Hanamaki’s skin without actually touching it. In some half-cognizant way he can almost feel the sensation of leather smacking against his own arms, reminiscent and dreamlike. 

For a dangerous, fleeting moment he thinks about staying here for the night. There’s a spare futon in the closet he remembers from helping Hanamaki move just a few short weeks ago. But quickly, his better judgement catches up with him and he moves towards the door, silent as an unspoken word.

A small, barely acknowledgeable part of him hopes that in the morning Hanamaki will remember. But mostly, realistically, he hopes that he won’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re:  
> [Dotonbori](http://www.dotonbori.or.jp/en/)  
>   
> [Sumiyoshi Taisha](http://kansai-odyssey.com/sumiyoshi-taisha-part-1/)  
>   
> Thank you for reading. As always, any and all feedback is appreciated!


	3. 水

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hanamaki’s features glow in the soft lamplight of Matsukawa’s meager living room, lashes thick over hazy, grey eyes. Matsukawa’s not sure he’s ever noticed the color quite like this before—smoky and mirror-like, flecked with something like silver and longing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [theme music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FpzqXv0zfF0)   
>    
> 

Hanamaki thinks, objectively, that this must be the worst sex of his life. 

The body beneath him is strung tight, close to the edge if the nails digging pink lines into the plush of his ass has anything to say about it. Hanamaki leans back trying to find a better angle, grinds down and twists his hips but that only reminds him of the burning strain in his thighs and— _wow_ , his cock is only half hard at this point. 

“Switch or something,” he pants out, swiping at the sweaty chest beneath him halfheartedly. 

Firm hands grab at his waist and they roll together into the mussed sheets, warmed over by the morning orange-glow filtering in through the blinds behind the bed. His legs are tugged up under the knee and the angle is better, but still not quite right. 

“What’s wrong?” The words are puffed out over the skin of his neck, breathless, like it was his boyfriend and not Hanamaki that had been doing all the work thus far. 

He closes his eyes so that Reiji doesn’t see them roll to the ceiling. “Nothing, keep going,” he grits out and the next thrust isn’t painful, but Hanamaki is certainly a long way from pleasure. 

* * *

“It’s over,” Hanamaki says, studying the eel nigiri pinched between his chopsticks, and even if his chest feels lighter for having admitted it out loud, this feels like it should probably be a bigger deal.

Across the table Oikawa blinks, doe-brown irises surrounded by clear white, no red, no bags beneath. “What’s over?” he asks, head literally tilting to the side. 

Iwaizumi, for what it’s worth, looks much less kept and perfect than his partner. His clipped hair is mussed from too many habitual hands run through it, that familiar navy polo-shirt more wrinkled than usual. Still he fits Hanamaki with a pointed, _knowing_ expression and Hanamaki makes sure to focus his own eyes on the white embroidery over the right side of his friend’s chest denoting the logo of his physical therapy office. 

Hanamaki licks his lips and promptly stuffs the nigiri into his mouth without anymore hesitation. “Me and Reiji,” he answers around the mouthful. 

Oikawa, because he’s Oikawa, makes such a dramatic noise in the back of his throat, staring at Hanamaki like he’s just informed them that he’s been diagnosed with something terminal. “What happened?” he nearly gasps. 

Hanamaki blinks, not quite understanding how Oikawa can be acting so surprised, all things considered. He and Reiji didn’t even really get along all that well. 

He takes a minute to mull the question over in his head. _What happened?_ Well, there’s a laundry list of things he could say, but the incident from yesterday morning is still heavy and sour on his tongue, so he simply grimaces and shakes his head. “It’s just not going to work out.”

Oikawa studies him closely, gaze narrowing enough to show the barely-there crow’s feet that Hanamaki knows better than to mention. “Just like that?” he asks, suspicious. 

Hanamaki frowns, leaning forward enough to flick in front of Oikawa’s nose. “No, not _‘just like that,’_ ” he bites out. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” 

Oikawa slumps back into his chair, rubbing at his nose even though Hanamaki hadn’t even touched him. “Fine then, do what you want,” he mutters, clearly annoyed. 

Beside him Iwaizumi reigns in a sigh and instead grabs Oikawa’s hand in his own steady one, resting them against the table between half-eaten dishes of edamame and agedashi tofu in some form of solidarity. “What he means is we support you in whatever decision you decide to make.”

Hanamaki quirks a brow. “Since when did you become so soft?” 

Iwaizumi’s kind expression morphs quickly back into one Hanamaki is much more familiar with. “Take it while you can get it, dumbass,” he grunts back. 

Hanamaki laughs, feeling some of the weight lifting from his shoulders, and Oikawa even manages a smirk at that. “There’s the Iwaizumi I know.” 

“Hajime _has_ gotten a little soft, hasn’t he?” Oikawa simpers, pushing a long finger into Iwaizumi’s still scowling cheek. Hanamaki’s about to tag-in with another harmless barb, glad that the conversation has shifted, when the pretty silver band wrapping Oikawa’s ring finger catches the autumn sunlight through the restaurant’s front window. 

He stares at the ring and when Iwaizumi releases their hands to push Oikawa away none-too-gently he finds the matching one there too. 

Sometimes, for the briefest of moments, he forgets that these two are actually, by-the-book married to one another. It’s easy, especially when they bicker and argue like they’re back in high-school—like they are now across the table from him, uncaring of any curious onlookers or Hanamaki’s deadpan expression. 

Mostly though, it’s not that he _forgets_ exactly, but there’s just something that pulls sharply at his chest when he thinks about his friends, his _best_ friends, going off and tying the knot without telling a soul about it. He’s not _bitter_ , that’s not it at all. But, that feeling in his chest, in his lungs, in his gut—he thinks, probably, that’s how he should be feeling about ending things with Reiji.

But—he doesn’t. 

“Shittykawa, _get off_ ,” Iwaizumi growls, though he’s laughing and grinning through it so the effect isn’t quite the same. Oikawa is pushing into him, making these ridiculous puppy-dog eyes and Hanamaki outwardly grimaces, but still that pain in his chest doesn’t quite dissipate. 

Hanamaki opens his mouth to scold or tease or something, but then suddenly Iwaizumi fists a hand in Oikawa’s gaudy red and blue FC Tokyo sweatshirt and pulls him in to press a particularly smoldering kiss against his surprised, slack lips. 

This time Hanamaki’s grimace is more-than real, eyes flicking to the side and offering up some choice fake-gagging sounds in the face of such unnecessary PDA. Maybe he’s lucky these two idiots eloped in the end, he’s not sure he would have survived the ceremony. 

After several seconds too-long, Iwaizumi pushes Oikawa away, back into his seat with a smug grin at his husband’s hazy, unfocused expression. Iwaizumi turns back to Hanamaki and, years ago he might’ve flushed at the eyes on him, but now at twenty-five his smile only glows with unabashed confidence. “Sorry, sometimes it’s the only way to shut him up, you know,” he chuckles, entirely too proud of himself. 

Oikawa huffs, cheeks pink when he too turns back, blinking almost like he’d forgotten Hanamaki’s presence. “ _Anyways_ ,” Oikawa begins, petulant but unsteady, and Hanamaki has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at that. “I guess this means you’ll need a new plus-one for the party.” 

Maybe it’s karma for finding amusement in Oikawa’s pain (read: _pleasure_ ), but the reminder of the upcoming reception knocks Hanamaki back down a few pegs. Of course Oikawa couldn’t just go off and get married and _not_ have a party in his and Iwaizumi’s honor to celebrate after the fact. A _ridiculous_ party at a ridiculously nice venue; gold-foil invitations, black-tie, the whole shebang. 

Hanamaki is admittedly _sort of_ looking forward to it, if only for the sole purpose of celebrating his friend’s nuptial bliss and the promise of an open-bar. But like hell he’d admit anything of the sort out loud, certainly not in the presence of Oikawa Tooru. 

“When is that again?” Hanamaki makes a show of scratching at the non-existent stubble on his chin. “I think I threw out my invitation.” 

Oikawa’s lower lip pushes out just enough to classify as a pout. “Makki, you already RSVP’d.”

Iwaizumi watches the exchange from his relaxed position, arms folded over his chest and that air of smugness still surrounding him. Hanamaki shoots him a particularly sour look that the man ignores with practiced ease. 

“I’m not going to pick up some random just so your tables are even,” Hanamaki argues, looking back to Oikawa and not quite able to mask his annoyance with apathy.

“It’s got nothing to do with that.” Oikawa waves his hand flippantly. “I’ve already sent a head-count to our caterer. Do you know how much a plated dinner costs, Makki?”

“Leave him be, Tooru,” Iwaizumi grunts, effectively cutting Oikawa off. “Don’t worry, you won’t be the only single person there.”

Hanamaki meets his genuinely neutral look with a raised brow. “Wow, Iwaizumi, that makes me feel _so_ much better.”

“I just meant—” Iwaizumi sputters a little, finally losing whatever cool composure he’d been basking in since their lunch began. He swallows and Hanamaki watches how carefully he formulates his next words, though the tact doesn’t end up providing much cushion anyways. “Matsukawa’s not bringing a date either.” 

Knowing Iwaizumi, he thinks this is reassuring news that will put Hanamaki at ease. In the end, it just makes that annoying ache in his ribcage pound a little bit more precisely. 

This bit of information is not entirely surprisingly to Hanamaki though; he knows Matsukawa and his latest on-again-off-again relationship had officially ended somewhere around two months ago, give or take. But this was Matsukawa—Hanamaki just assumed he’d have already found a new date by now. 

When was the last time they’d talked? Hanamaki thought he remembered hearing about _someone_ —

“Hajime’s right, there will be plenty of single people there,” Oikawa explains with a smile that’s a little too slick. “But unless you’re planning on eating for two, I’d suggest finding a date.”

Hanamaki blinks, mind clearing back to something a little more normal, more manageable. “How do you live with him?” he asks Iwaizumi, reaching for his water glass. 

Iwaizumi meets his gaze just as blankly. “I ask myself the same question most days.”

“You two never change,” Oikawa scowls. “Always ganging up on me.”

The statement hardens something inside Hanamaki, his jaw clenching as he watches Iwaizumi’s easy laughter and Oikawa’s features melt into something soft and fond. He thinks, point-blank, that Oikawa is entirely wrong in that statement. Isn’t it obvious that _Hanamaki_ is the only one that hasn’t changed? 

“Really though, Makki,” Oikawa asks, breaking through Hanamaki’s cloudy thoughts. His eyes are clear with renewed kindness and concern once again. “You’re okay?”

This conversation might actually be giving Hanamaki whiplash, but that’s really nothing too unexpected after all these years ( _long_ years) of friendship. 

“I’m good,” he nods because it’s true. “I’m the one doing the breaking up for once. So I’m in control, right?”

Hanamaki stops short, lips hanging open just a little as he realizes what he’s just said. He has absolutely no idea why he’d posed it as a question, wishing immediately that he could bite back those last few words, but instead all he can do is imagine the way they linger in the air between them all, sticky and uncertain. 

Oikawa, observant as always, seems to notice Hanamaki’s discomfort and immediately dives into a story he’s just conveniently remembered about Ushijima and another one of their teammates during an exhibition match the Japan National Team had played recently against France. 

It’s amusing and, now that he’s so far removed from playing volleyball himself, Hanamaki does like hearing all of Oikawa’s stories, plentiful as they are. 

But still, something else lingers, sharp and irritating, especially when that pretty silver band flashes again before Hanamaki’s eyes when Oikawa reaches the climax of his anecdote. 

_I’m in control, right?_

* * *

Matsukawa would like to attribute his meager enjoyment of adulthood thus far to a well-paying job, a place of his own with an actual bedroom and no communal showers, living a bullet-train away from his mother’s worrying, decent healthcare maybe.

But, at least for right now, nearly midnight with the first cool winds of October approaching through his living room window, he’d like to attribute it to the greasy cheeseburger and fries perched in their paper wrappers on his coffee table without a single soul to nag him. 

It had been a tough week, he deserves this. 

“ _It’s Friday night, Issei, I can’t believe you’re just sitting at home,”_ Hanamaki says on the other end of the phone. _“I thought Shinbashi had a decent bar scene.”_

Okay, so maybe _one_ soul. 

Matsukawa scowls down at his food and then over to where his cellphone lies face-up on speaker. “What are _your_ plans tonight, Hiro?”

_“Veg out on the couch, obviously,”_ comes the reply Matsukawa could have guessed at. 

He can’t help it, truly, the grin that worms its way onto his face. He plucks a fry between thumb and forefinger and it wilts a little in his grip. “Since when did we become old and boring?”

_“Speak for yourself.”_ Hanamaki makes his tone sound offended, though Matsukawa can imagine the man working his way through his twitter feed, pajama-clad, as they speak. _“I’m as young and spry and exciting as ever.”_

Matsukawa licks away some salt from his lower lip and hums in acknowledgment. “Says the guy watching Buzzfeed videos without subtitles at midnight on a Friday.”

_“Hey, how do you know that I’m—”_

“Tell me you’re not, Hiro.”

Matsukawa hears a grumble on the other end and stifles his laughter with another fry. _“Okay, fine, you got me,”_ Hanamaki bites out. _“I may be boring but I’m definitely not old. Reiji was old, not me.”_

The name pricks as it enters Matsukawa’s ears, scraping up a pile of mixed emotions in his stomach that he valiantly swallows back down. 

“I thought he was only two years older than you,” Matsukawa says, going for that comfortable brand of deadpan teasing than anything more volatile. 

_“You’re awfully contrary tonight, Issei.”_

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Hanamaki snorts a laugh and it’s a sound Matsukawa won’t ever quite get over. _“Idiot.”_

“How are you, by the way?”

The question is out of Matsukawa’s mouth before he can stop it, which is probably just as well because honestly he would really like to know the answer. 

_“Me?”_ Hanamaki asks in that deep voice of his. _“I just watched a video of kittens meeting puppies for the first time, how do you think I am?”_

That’s definitely some cute imagery, Matsukawa will admit. Hanamaki had always been soft for things like tiny, wobbly animals. But of course, that’s not really the point, is it?

“I mean,” Matsukawa presses with just a little bit more force. “How have you been—since the breakup?” 

He’s entering dangerous territory he knows, but Matsukawa can’t help but be a bit curious, concerned even. Hanamaki was the type of person to stew in emotions and build up walls unless someone came knocking, asking just the right questions and knowing the correct password for any sort of clearance. 

Matsukawa used to know the best questions to ask, the right password, the right everything, but at this point he’s not so certain anymore. 

“ _How did you get over your last breakup?_ ” Hanamaki asks, avoiding the question entirely and plucking the attention right off of him and throwing it straight back at Matsukawa. “ _What was his name again? Takemoto?_ ”

“Takeuchi,” Matsukawa corrects him studiously, bypassing Hanamaki’s ignorance for the teasing it is. None of this is really that surprising, the evading, the blasé attitude. 

“ _Yeah, that’s the one,”_ Hanamaki answers and Matsukawa knows his friend’s flippancy on the subject is only due to Hanamaki attempting to steer the conversation away from anything too serious. Besides, Matsukawa’s been over Takeuchi for some time, maybe even a little when they’d still been together, so it doesn’t hurt, but still—

He swallows, swirls the words around on his tongue once before answering in his own flippant way, “You know, the usual. Sake and casual sex.” 

If he’d been entering dangerous territory before, now he’s basically throwing himself on a landmine that has a fifty-fifty chance of being a dud. Matsukawa doesn’t know at all what he’s angling for anymore, but he just couldn’t stop himself from keeping up with Hanamaki’s banter. Maybe it’s some form of coping, some way of letting Hanamaki know that he’s here for him without spelling it out in a sappy way that would only make Hanamaki lock himself further away. 

It’s not surprising, this attitude. But Hanamaki’s answer certainly isn’t what Matsukawa was expecting. 

_“What are you doing right now?”_

* * *

Matsukawa knows that it takes approximately forty minutes for Hanamaki to get from Setagaya to Shimbashi Station, give or take. This leaves Matsukawa just enough time to lose his appetite completely, shove his woebegone leftovers in the fridge, and then sit on his couch to overthink _everything_.

It’s not as though he doesn’t want Hanamaki to come over, that’s not it at all. 

He _does_ want him to come over. Possibly too much. 

His window is still open, the one that looks out onto the fire escape he’s not so sure he trusts and the air that’s filtering in has gone from cool to cold to almost unbearable. It’s not supposed to feel like winter yet and Matsukawa is beginning to think maybe it’s not just the breeze that’s got him in chills. 

Matsukawa slams the window shut just as a familiar pattern wraps against his front door. 

He knows who it is, but still when Matsukawa opens the door something hits him, breath leaving his lungs. Hanamaki stands there on his doorstep, basically leaning into the doorjamb with a green bottle of cheap sake clutched between his fingers, an offering. 

“Hey there, I was just in the neighborhood,” Hanamaki says, trailing off and fitting Matsukawa with a look that makes him wonder if Hanamaki had already broken the seal on that bottle of alcohol on his way over. 

For all that Matsukawa had been kidding on the phone earlier, the heat smoldering low in his gut now is very much real and trying to vie for as much of Matsukawa’s attention as it can. 

“Hey,” Matsukawa answers for lack of anything better, but Hanamaki doesn’t seem to care and brushes past him inside the apartment anyways.

Matsukawa doesn’t remember the last time Hanamaki had been to his place, or vice versa either. Lately they’d developed a sort of relationship built on quick dinners, hole-in-the-wall bars, and crashing Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s date nights when they were lucky. 

This though, having Hanamaki here rummaging through his kitchen cabinets for optimal sake drinking glassware, it’s somehow natural. The thought prods at something buried away at the back of Matsukawa’s mind, a memory maybe or else just a liminal time and place of the past. 

“Thanks for letting me crash your boring Friday night,” Hanamaki says, breaking through Matsukawa’s internalized thoughts, and making himself comfortable on the couch. 

It takes a second, maybe out of hesitation, for Matsukawa to join him. “Because you were doing so many more exciting things,” he smirks, glancing at the mismatched glasses sat atop his coffee table, definitely not intended for sake. 

Hanamaki smirks back, though it morphs into more of a smile, wide and a little pleased. “At least now we’re in this together,” he says, twisting off the bottle’s cap with a click. 

The words are meant to be light, joking, friendly. But somehow they ring inside Matsukawa’s head as something entirely different. _Together_. It doesn’t sound quite right, describing them.

Matsukawa watches the liquid slosh into each glass, Hanamaki pouring against tradition, though that doesn’t really seem to be at the forefront of either of their minds. Matsukawa still remembers the first time he’d tasted sake with his father in their tiny kitchen; it had certainly grown on his pallet in the time between then and now. 

Hanamaki raises his glass, studying the fingerprints he leaves in the wet chill that’s formed around the cool drink. “To breakups?” he asks and that look from before is back, something a bit unsteady though he manages to gauge for Matsukawa’s reaction just the same. 

Matsukawa doesn’t grant him a reaction though because Hanamaki is already here, the implications nearly as thick as the warmth between them now that he’d closed the window. So instead of answering or reacting Matsukawa tilts the glass against his lips, just enough so that he can still watch the way Hanamaki’s throat works over his first swallow, then the second. 

“This is terrible,” Hanamaki declares around a grimace, licking at his lips. Matsukawa takes a sip out of solidarity and can’t help but agree. 

Though that doesn’t stop Hanamaki from refilling their glasses once empty or Matsukawa from continuing to drink however much Hanamaki resolves to give him. 

After the third glass Matsukawa’s stomach starts to feel warm, his head a little fuzzy around the edges, and he’s not sure, but Hanamaki’s eyes look a little more half-lidded than usual. 

“Hmm,” Hanamaki contemplates, tapping the edge of his glass against his lower lip. “Our second year at university, there was this one girl, short with sort of blonde hair—”

“Kawasaki,” Matsukawa supplies and Hanamaki hums in remembrance, nodding deeply. 

“Yeah, whatever happened with her? She was cute,” Hanamaki says and there’s definitely a slur to his words at this point. 

Matsukawa blinks, wracking his brain to remember. She _had_ been cute, but there’s a particularly sour taste on his tongue when he pictures her in his mind’s eye. “I think,” he begins. “She was using me to make her ex jealous.” 

“Ahh.” Hanamaki swirls the last finger of his sake, watching it cling to the glass. “I had that one too, but you’ll never believe the ending.”

Matsukawa quirks a brow. “Oh?”

“Turns out I must be at least a little bit attractive,” Hanamaki explains, eyes rolling to the ceiling and lips pouting as if trying to hide the self-deprecation. Matsukawa has to stifle the urge to reach out and pinch him. “They propositioned a threesome.” 

That has Matsukawa stifling the urge to pinch himself. “No shit,” he murmurs, going in for another sip of sake only to find his glass empty.

“Does it make me a prude that I couldn’t go through with it?” Hanamaki asks. “Maybe with someone I had more feelings for.” 

The words are definitely counter to what Matsukawa’s intoxicated (and therefore unruly) mind is conjuring up, but he’s not at all prepared for Hanamaki’s gaze to bore straight into his own when their eyes meet across the single couch cushion still separating them. 

“When was this?” Matsukawa’s mouth says for him. 

“Actually, not too long before Reiji.” After it’s admitted, Hanamaki is the one to break their eye-contact. Matsukawa isn’t sure if he’s relieved or more burdened by that. 

“Do you—” Matsukawa bites against his tongue, the tang of sake suddenly feeling a bit heavy. “Never mind.”

Hanamaki reacts almost immediately, nearly flinching at the obvious question that now hangs between them. He compensates though, leaning back against the arm of the couch and regarding Matsukawa with that Hanamaki-smirk, though this one a bit unsteady and forced. 

“What?” he hums. “Do I regret having turned down what was possibly my only opportunity at a threesome?”

Matsukawa, probably because he’s hedging on drunk, is unable to stop the smile that tugs at his lips. He understands that Hanamaki is skirting the issue, trying to play things off, so despite the amusement, the appreciation he holds for Hanamaki’s quick wit, he still tries to seek out a real answer.

“No.” Matsukawa swallows, not quite able to banish his smile entirely. “No. I was going to ask—do you want to talk about it? Reiji, I mean.”

There, now it’s out in the open. Not over the phone, but face-to-face. Matsukawa’s not totally sure he’s going to get anything other than another decoy or dodge, but he hopes—

“Not much to talk about actually,” Hanamaki shrugs, like it’s really just _nothing_ to him. “The sex was bad. You know, same old stuff.”

_Same old stuff._ Matsukawa’s known Hanamaki long enough that it’s not too hard to decode a line like that. That first part though—

“The sex was bad,” Matsukawa repeats, blankly. 

There’s something creeping up Hanamaki’s neck, warm and pink and if it wasn’t for his complexion Matsukawa might not have been able to tell.

“Hey, I thought this was a judgement free zone,” Hanamaki blurts and again Matsukawa can hear the wobble in his voice. “I admitted my first-year crush on Iwaizumi to you!”

“I’m not judging you, Hiro,” Matsukawa answers immediately and he doesn’t try to fight his grin this time. “Who _didn’t_ have a crush on Iwaizumi at some point or another.”

“I’m serious, you know,” says Hanamaki and suddenly he’s on his knees, leaning towards Matsukawa, almost in earnest. “The sex wasn’t good. I mean, I guess it was at the beginning, but then again so was the whole relationship. Things deteriorated fast—it just seems like that shouldn’t happen if it’s a good relationship, right?” 

Matsukawa feels like the air has been sucked out of his lungs as Hanamaki sits there, closer than he’s been all night, and waits for an answer. But what kind to answer is he looking for exactly? Matsukawa isn’t sure he’ll be able to give him the right one.

“Hiro—"

“Does it really work?”

Matsukawa squints a little helplessly at Hanamaki’s rapid non-sequitur. “What?”

Hanamaki’s features glow in the soft lamplight of Matsukawa’s meager living room, lashes thick over hazy, grey eyes. Matsukawa’s not sure he’s ever noticed the color quite like this before—smoky and mirror-like, flecked with something like silver and longing.

“Sake and casual sex?” Hanamaki says, voice so low it’s nearly vibrating.

Casual sex does not solve _anything_ , Matsukawa had learned that much back in high school, back when he’d still been naive and hormonal and reckless, but still he’d at least taken that lesson with him.

And yet—

Matsukawa’s palm ghosts over the soft skin of Hanamaki’s jaw as he goes to latch onto the back of the man’s neck and pull him in until their lips meet, slightly off-center. 

The sake clinging to Hanamaki’s mouth tastes so much better than Matsukawa ever imagined cheap liquor could. They kiss, open-lipped and tongues laving against one another and Matsukawa holds Hanamaki to him, tangling fingers in soft, strawberry hair. Hanamaki clutches at his forearm and shoulder, balanced still a little precariously on his knees, but mouthing against Matsukawa with fervor nonetheless. 

A tingling warmth is working it’s way down from Matsukawa’s stomach and he can feel himself growing hard in his pants, unable to help being affected by Hanamaki’s lips and those little breathless noises he lets escape between each kiss. 

It’s different than when they were teenagers; of course it is. Somehow, Matsukawa thinks, it’s slower, less hurried, less focussed on release and more focussed on— _what_ he isn’t quite yet sure. 

Hanamaki shuffles forward on his knees, not releasing Matsukawa as he finds his balance atop the couch cushions. When Matsukawa cracks an eye open he finds a familiar, pretty blush painted across Hanamaki’s freckled cheeks and his eyes closed, clenched almost in concentration. 

Matsukawa’s brain buzzes with the last haze of intoxication spurring him forward until he captures Hanamaki’s lower lip in his teeth. But it’s the uninhibited moan that leaves Hanamaki’s throat that has Matsukawa’s hands lunging forward to wrap around a firm waist.

“ _Issei_.” Hanamaki’s laughter is nothing but a whisper in Matsukawa’s ear as he drags the other man into his lap until he’s being straddled by thick thighs and there’s a weighty, firm body grinding against his own. 

Matsukawa presses his lips against Hanamaki’s neck, kissing and licking a trail down the smooth flesh to his shirt which he moves aside with impatient fingers so he can lay even more kisses against Hanamaki’s collarbone all the way to his shoulder. Suddenly he feels possessed. 

But Hanamaki lets him—lets him hold him steady in his lap, lets him nip and taste the delicate skin at his neck’s hollow, lets him slowly work them both up until Hanamaki can’t help but grind into him. 

And oh, this is _definitely_ different than when they were teenagers. 

“You sure this is okay?” Hanamaki’s voice wavers just a little, but it’s enough to pull Matsukawa back up to the surface. He sucks in a breath, meets Hanamaki’s gaze and finds those eyes searching, wondering. 

This is his chance to back off, to place Hanamaki gently back on the couch beside him, apologize maybe. Though Matsukawa knows really, there’s nothing to apologize for, but somehow one still rests on the precipice of his tongue anyways. 

He swallows and Hanamaki is still looking at him, waiting, but the flush on his cheeks hasn’t faded and he’s still fisting the hem of Matsukawa’s old JFA t-shirt as though he has no intention of ever letting go. 

Matsukawa nods and it’s not a lie, even if his pulse is going crazy. “Yeah,” he says, firm but not so much that it might take away from whatever atmosphere they’ve built in that scant few inches between themselves. “Yeah,” he repeats and presses forward for another kiss. 

* * *

It’s pushing three in the morning when they finally pull themselves away from Matsukawa’s couch, minds a little less clogged and limbs languid and warm.

Matsukawa is making coffee and, despite the fact that they both look like they could fall asleep at any second, Hanamaki is sort of enjoying it. There’s something nostalgic about caffeine and late nights and when Hanamaki glances out the window he can see the drizzle of rain that falls through the light of the streetlamp outside. 

In his gut he can feel something brewing, twisting inside him; uncertainty, reproach, _guilt_. He swallows it all down, instead basking in Matsukawa’s presence and the pungent smell of dark coffee grounds. 

“You know they call this the witching hour, I think,” he says, not really thinking. The electric kettle on the counter beside him grows steadily louder with the hum of heating water. 

“Superstitious, Hiro?” Matsukawa says, rummaging in his cabinet for mugs, muscles stretching and twisting with every little movement. 

Amazingly Hanamaki’s own clothing had managed to stay clean during their impulsive tryst in the living room, grinding against each other like desperate teenagers, but Matsukawa had not been so fortunate. This though is not such a bad thing, in Hanamaki’s opinion, seeing as how now Matsukawa is consequently shirtless. 

He’s not entirely sure how to respond to the (potentially rhetorical) question so instead Hanamaki says, “So, you’re really not taking anyone to the party?” 

He watches Matsukawa’s back closely, searching out an unspoken reaction, but he only gets the minor stiffening of shoulders and then Matsukawa twists his attention to something tacked up on the side of his refrigerator, creamy white paper and gold foil. 

“We should go together,” Matsukawa says blandly, after a few beats. 

Hanamaki snorts; he’d always appreciated Matsukawa’s dry sense of humor the most. “That’ll certainly annoy Oikawa.”

Outside, there’s the faintest rumble of thunder. Matsukawa turns to face Hanamaki fully, brows raised. “Exactly,” he nods, entirely serious. 

There’s something in his gaze, something sharper than before, like he can see straight through Hanamaki here in his small kitchen with the rain dripping against that single window across the room. Inside the kettle, the water thrashes against the sides, bubbling and reaching a scalding crescendo. 

His earlier buzz from the sake is all but gone now, but still Hanamaki feels a bit dizzy. “Alright,” he answers, because really is there any better option?

The kettle beeps, insistent through the silence. Hanamaki is the first to look away. 

* * *

It’s a Saturday, so deep into autumn now that he can’t leave the house without a jacket or at the very least long sleeves. But he finds coat-checks a hassle, so he leaves his apartment bare-armed to meet his friends outside of a new, highly-rated club in Shinjuku.

Matsukawa has to remind himself that he is not as old as he feels in this moment, music blaring in his ears and base vibrating through his bones. The club is dim and lit only by the occasional flash of lights and the incessant glow of neon blue and purple. It’s not his first choice for a night out with friends, he’s more of a single counter izakaya kind of guy, but Oikawa had pouted and Iwaizumi had very nearly pleaded (probably out of self-preservation) so here they are. 

Getting past the front door had been easier than he’d expected, something having to do with Oikawa’s endorsements and connections and Matsukawa really doesn’t care. He gets it, the man needs a break (don’t they all) but still he can already feel the telltale signs of a headache burgeoning at the back of his skull and he hasn’t even had a single thing to drink yet. 

“What am I getting out of this again?” Matsukawa asks over the music once they’ve gathered around a hightop table that looks out onto the dance floor.

Iwaizumi squints at him, but it’s probably just because of the bad lighting. “The satisfaction of helping out a friend.”

Matsukawa hums in understanding, raising a hand to point casually at Iwaizumi. “You mean _you_ specifically, right?”

“Can’t you just have _fun?_ ” Oikawa huffs, scowling at Matsukawa and this time he knows it’s got nothing to do with the lighting. 

“Yeah, Issei,” Hanamaki nods, too-deeply. He pokes at Matsukawa’s side all-the-while leaning into Oikawa’s space with a smirk.“Can’t you suck it up for our dear Tooru’s sake?”

“Shut it, Makki,” Oikawa smiles back, as cheerful as ever, and the expression is just as terrifying as it was back in high school. “I’ll go get shots!”

“ _No shots,_ ” Iwaizumi growls, turning quickly to follow Oikawa to the bar. 

Next to him, Hanamaki’s shoulders slump as though he’d been putting on a show for Oikawa. He sighs and leans forward against the table, eyes tracking their friend’s movements through the crowd. “Iwaizumi is still as responsible as ever,” he comments, offhandedly. 

Matsukawa chuckles, the sound low in his own ears. “Do you _remember_ the last time Oikawa did shots?”

Hanamaki grimaces, side-eying Matsukawa like he’s done him a grave injustice. “Don’t remind me.”

The music switches to something electronic, base still thumping, but it’s got a pleasant, catchy beat. Beneath the warm neon glow, Hanamaki’s skin fades from red to blue to lilac in a revolving pattern that threatens to hypnotize Matsukawa if he doesn’t look away soon. The way Hanamaki braces his forearms against the table, Matsukawa can see the planes of lean muscle and the shadows that drip down his collar bones, his v-neck hiding very little.

He looks good, too good maybe, and Matsukawa’s traitorous brain reminds him of the way Hanamaki’s neck had vibrated beneath his lips when he’d sucked a low moan from his throat. 

His mouth runs dry and Matsukawa squeezes his eyes shut against the memory, hoping Hanamaki won’t notice. It turns out that his only saving grace is Oikawa returning with Iwaizumi and a set of four matching drinks in hand. 

“About time,” Hanamaki says and Matsukawa couldn’t agree more, though he can’t find it in himself to make any sort of agreeable eye contact with the man. 

Oikawa’s eyes roll, but it’s just as fond as Hanamaki’s jabs or Matsukawa’s sharp tongue ever is. “You’re welcome,” comes his answer and the lights shift again, this time to something green and it colors Hanamaki’s skin like sea-glass. 

Matsukawa takes a sip, pointedly ignoring Iwaizumi’s heavy hand settling low on Oikawa’s waist in his peripheral. The drink is too sweet and definitely too strong, but it’s alcohol and right now his overactive mind needs all it can get. 

Halfway through his own drink Oikawa sidles over closer to Hanamaki, leaning in to whisper something into his ear. Matsukawa is half curious and half—well, maybe he’s one-hundred percent curious, but the logical part of his brain that’s still fighting against the swirling combination of music and alcohol tells him maybe he just _doesn’t want to know at all._

Hanamaki laughs at whatever it is anyways and, from what Matsukawa can tell, it’s genuine and enough to make him playfully push Oikawa away. Beside him, Iwaizumi watches as well, though there’s definitely something knowing in his gaze that has Matsukawa’s earlier curiosity growing exponentially. 

Over the upbeat of the music and across the table Hanamaki all but yells, “I’ll get the next round."

The second he disappears into the crowd filling in around them, the amused, flushed expression on Oikawa’s face disappears as well. He presses forward to give Matsukawa a look that’s as far from tipsy as he’d made himself appear a moment before. It’s sober and piercing and Matsukawa can’t help but feel intimidated by it. 

“Is he okay?” Oikawa asks. 

Matsukawa, because he won’t be cowed so easily, stares back at him blankly. “Who?”

Oikawa scowls. A strobe light slashes over the dance floor, creating ugly shadows over his features. “Mattsun, playing dumb doesn’t suit you.”

Matsukawa plants his chin in hand atop the table, regarding Oikawa through half-lidded eyes. “Yeah, that’s more your thing, hm?” 

“As much as I enjoy teasing _this_ idiot,” Iwaizumi interrupts, hooking at thumb in Oikawa’s direction. His drink is gone and he swirls the remaining ice with his straw absently. “I’m also interested in the answer to his question.”

“Now I’m just feeling ganged up on,” Matsukawa says because it’s the truth, but also because he really doesn’t know how to answer this particularly acute question. 

His eye catches the glow of matching silver bands beneath the neon and he sips at what’s left of his drink, watered down but cool on his tongue. 

Because they are his closest friends, Matsukawa knows he’s not going to be able to dodge the question much longer. So annoying. Yet somewhere, deep down in the recesses of his mind, he too wants desperately to know the answer. 

Matsukawa shrugs, hoping he doesn’t look as helpless as he feels under their scrutiny. “I’m not sure,” he says, finally. 

Iwaizumi inclines his head in a nod, like he’d expected as much, but Oikawa’s eyes don’t lose any of their sharpness as he continues to watch Matsukawa. “Do you ever think, _maybe_ , the reason your relationships never seem to work out is because—”

Oikawa leaves the sentence hanging, dramatic as always, but Matsukawa can read past that this time, can see the uncertainty, the real hesitance there as well. “Because?” he prompts. 

“Because—” Oikawa continues, slowly, and when he pauses again Matsukawa’s brain clicks with exactly what’s going to come next, though he has no time to stop it. “Of _each other_. The relationship you two have.” 

Iwaizumi seems to stiffen at this, like he’d not known that this was the route Oikawa was going to take the conversation. Matsukawa too feels a little bit like he’s been slapped in the face. 

He’s not sure if Oikawa is _actually_ implying—well, Oikawa could be implying anything, but that doesn’t make it the truth. Had he ever ended something because of Hanamaki—had he ever been broken up with because of him? 

Matsukawa is quick to repress the answer to that; he really doesn’t want to think about all this. Not right now at least. Not with Hanamaki only a few meters away, with the lights illuminating him against the slick, black bar-top as he leans in to flirt with the tall, blond bartender. 

Matsukawa blinks, realizes he’s been staring, realizes his fingers had curled into fists atop the table. He can still feel Oikawa watching him, but at the moment he’s got bigger problems to deal with. 

He has no right at all to feel like this, he knows that. But on some basal level Matsukawa cannot stop himself from moving forward, pushing his way through the crowd until he’s standing in front of Hanamaki just as he’s turning away from the bar. 

“Oh,” Hanamaki says, stopping himself from falling forward against Matsukawa’s chest at the last second. He stares up with eyes wider than usual, clear and more innocent than Matsukawa is used to. “Hi, Issei.” 

“I thought you might need some help,” Matsukawa explains and he hates how robotic and forced it sounds leaving his mouth, though Hanamaki doesn’t seem to notice at least. 

He nods and shoves a couple of drinks into Matsukawa’s hands and Matsukawa follows him back to the table feeling a little bit lost. 

“Flirting with the bartender, how shameless,” Oikawa purrs when they get back and Matsukawa flinches at the words. 

“Hey, it’s not shameless if I get a couple of free drinks out of it,” Hanamaki bites back, scooting a glass towards Iwaizumi and purposefully leaving Matsukawa to serve Oikawa. “Besides he’s not really my type.” 

At that Matsukawa glances up, not entirely sure why, but he finds Hanamaki watching him carefully. The song changes again to something far from Matsukawa’s personal taste, but for now it doesn’t really matter because the lights dim to a soft pink and Matsukawa decides he likes that color the best. 

* * *

Hanamaki knows that it’s basically a universal truth that Matsukawa Issei is attractive.

He _knows_ this and still somehow he can’t quite wrap his head around Matsukawa in a tailored charcoal suit and black shirt standing here on the sidewalk in front of his building. He’s forgone a tie, same as Hanamaki, but it works so much better for him it’s almost unfair. That bit of tan skin along his neck showing through where he’s loosened the buttons makes Hanamaki want to drop everything and drag him back upstairs. 

But—that would not be appropriate, all things considered. Hanamaki knows this too, but he can’t help it if his imagination is running a little wild at the sight of his best friend all cleaned up. 

“New suit?” he asks, dragging Matsukawa’s attention up from where he’d been scrolling on his phone. 

Matsukawa’s broad shoulders lift up and down, casually. “I didn’t really have anything very formal,” he answers, crooking his neck to look down at himself like he’d almost forgotten what he was actually wearing. It’s almost too endearing for Hanamaki to handle after having already come close to short-circuiting. ”All my work clothes are too business-like.” 

Hanamaki’s not entirely sure he get’s that, considering he doesn’t have to wear a full suit to work everyday, but of course graphic design and statistical analysis are two entirely different ballparks. 

“Such a problem to have,” Hanamaki dead-pans, shrugging on his coat against the slight chill as the sun sets slowly into the horizon. “Your closet is ridiculous, I think you may even have Oikawa beat.”

Matsukawa clicks his tongue with a sour look. “Now, let’s not be hasty.” 

“You’re right, Oikawa’s got all sorts of designer crap,” Hanamaki chuckles, gesturing to Matsukawa’s suit. “Not anything off-the-rack like _this_.” 

Matsukawa leans into him, playful, brandishing an invisible microphone under his lips. “And what are you wearing tonight, Hanamaki-san?”

“This old thing?” Hanamaki plucks at the the edges of his blue suit coat. “Uniqlo, of course.” 

“Only the best,” Matsukawa hums. 

Hanamaki let’s his mouth curl into something roguish. “I look good and you know it.” 

Matsukawa regards him, eyes roving heavily up and down his body. “You do,” he agrees without hesitance and then starts forward towards the train station without waiting for Hanamaki’s response. 

At this Hanamaki feels off-balance, as per usual when Matsukawa does things like _that_. 

Their shoes click against the pavement as they walk in time with each other. Hanamaki tells a couple of amusing stories from work and Matsukawa listens attentively even if he leaves his eyes forward to watch where they’re walking, having to halt Hanamaki only once as a light changes abruptly. It’s causal and comfortable and when they get on the train they end up standing next to each other, perhaps a little closer than necessary, but Hanamaki doesn’t mind it and Matsukawa doesn’t seem to either. 

By the time they’ve made it to the hotel in Roppongi the sun has disappeared fully and the sky glows navy-blue with the light of a full-moon. It’s a nice hotel, surely much nicer than what Hanamaki could afford, with marble floors and high ceilings in the amber-lit lobby. He’s never been to a reception that didn’t involve copious amounts of his own family members and tradition and certainly not to one in a place quite so fancy.

But, as it turns out, the reception room isn’t overly large and feels rather warm and cozy with a handful of tables dressed in golden cloths and low vases spilling red chrysanthemum. It’s buzzing already with conversation, guests milling close to the bar or admiring the colorful sushi and sashimi laid out atop platters of black slate. 

There’s a seating arrangement, which makes Hanamaki imagine Oikawa slaving away at his desk till all hours of the night on the last minute details. But he does appreciate being placed between Matsukawa and Kunimi, even if the latter will pretend to ignore most of his best jokes. 

Hanamaki follows Matsukawa closer to the bar, spotting Oikawa and Iwaizumi surrounded on nearly all sides by women in varying degrees of cocktail dresses. He recognizes Oikawa’s mother and assumes the others are aunts or cousins or family friends.

“Should we help them?” Hanamaki chuckles into the back of his hand.

Matsukawa eyes the scene for himself with an arched brow. “It’s their special day. This is what you get when you go off and elope without telling anybody.”

“I wonder who wanted this party more—Oikawa or his mom?”

“I guess Iwaizumi knew what he was getting into, at least,” Matsukawa muses and Hanamaki imagines the pictures he’s seen of Oikawa and Iwaizumi when they were kids, all scraped elbows and missing teeth. 

There’s a small, infinitesimal part of him that clenches with something envious as he watches Oikawa’s mother fawning over he and Iwaizumi like that. But he’s quick to lock it away with all of the other feelings he shouldn’t be thinking about tonight, or potentially _ever_. 

“Okay, drink time,” Hanamaki announces, heading again for the bar and averting his gaze so Matsukawa won’t read too much into it. 

When the dinner service starts and they make their way back to the table Hanamaki is pleasantly surprised to find a multitude of familiar faces. There’s Kindaichi and Kunimi of course, and Yahaba sitting close to Kyoutani across from them. Watari is making pleasant conversation with a cute girl Hanamaki thinks he might have met before and even Yuda is there, making the rounds and introducing everyone to the woman on his arm sporting a shiny, new ring. 

Alright, so he hadn’t been lied to; there’s plenty that are coupled up, but plenty still single. He’s single and so is Matsukawa and he’s really never been sure about Kindaichi and Kunimi, but he’s pretty sure about Kyoutani and Yahaba now—

Hanamaki plops down in his seat, mind reeling a little from trying to decipher it all. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d seen any of them, much less when they’d all been in the same room together like this. 

They indulge in an elegant plated dinner of Sekihan and grilled red sea bream. It’s accompanied by nostalgic conversation and old, drudged up memories of days not too far gone in the grand scheme of things. Hanamaki sips the wine he’s served and watches with no small amount of amusement as Matsukawa tries to explain things like corporate groups and data sample populations and basically all the other bullshit that goes along with his job.

“Never took you for a corporate kind of guy,” Yuda jokes and Matsukawa might actually blush a little at that, amazingly enough. 

Hanamaki offers him a staunch smack to the back, grinning widely. “Don’t let him fool you, he’s always been a nerd.” 

Oikawa and Iwaizumi don’t cut a cake, instead wielding a pair of wooden mallets to crack open a pretty hefty sake barrel painted in red and white and black along its sides. It’s hilarious and sweet all at once, especially when they manage to get the lid off and Iwaizumi steals a kiss right off Oikawa’s victorious face sending up a whole new round of laughter and cheers and clanking of glasses. 

The sake is cool against Hanamaki’s tongue, warming his belly with each passing toast and speech. Oikawa goes teary eyed when his father speaks, simple but poignant, and Iwaizumi flushes a bright scarlet when his mother decides to grant them all a few embarrassing stories from childhood. They dance together and then with their mother’s and then with each other’s mothers and by the end of it all Iwaizumi has shown off his two left feet and everyone is blushing and laughing and so, _so_ happy. 

It’s an intimate, sacred celebration that Hanamaki feels lucky to have been a part of. 

He bites into a little pink daifuku and it’s almost too sweet to the point of sickening and, somewhere in the hollows of his own head, he wonders if that’s a metaphor for something. 

“Care to dance?” 

The music is a low hum of guitar and slow rhythms in the background as Hanamaki turns to find Matsukawa standing next to him, jacket since forgotten and sleeves rolled at the elbows. 

Hanamaki blinks and fits him with a sharp smirk. “Do I look like the kind of person who dances at weddings?”

He’s only halfway kidding, he thinks. 

But Matsukawa doesn’t seem bothered by the slight bitterness in his tone, leaning weight onto his hip and regarding Hanamaki like he’s in this for the long haul. “I don’t know,” he explains, calmly. “I’ve never been to a wedding with you before.”

Instead of answering Hanamaki let’s his eyes wander to the meager parquet dance-floor. There’s the happy couple, of course, Oikawa’s arms all the way around Iwaizumi’s shoulders and holding him close. Yahaba clings to Kyoutani like if he lets go the other might turn and run; Kyoutani’s since given up on the bottle-blond look and there’s something else different too, maybe his gaze is a little less severe, but Hanamaki can’t be certain considering he’s still as broody and growly as he ever was. Iwaizumi’s parents are there as well along with old university teammates and some family Hanamaki’s not familiar with—but still, they all look just a little bit too in lov—

“Isn’t this a couple song?” he blurts, turning back to squint up at Matsukawa. 

But he’s just met with an outstretched hand in his face. “Let me rephrase,” Matsukawa says. “Takahiro, may I have this dance?” 

Quickly Hanamaki attributes whatever weird little flip his stomach does to the alcoholand too-sweet daifuku. 

“Bastard,” Hanamaki grumbles, but still takes Matsukawa’s hand because really, how is he supposed to resit? 

Matsukawa chuckles in his ear as he guides him out to the dance-floor. “I was going for charming.”

“Charming bastard,” Hanamaki amends and, against all better judgment, he lets Matsukawa lead. 

The song is slow and long enough that it gives Hanamaki time to think, which is probably a bad thing in the end considering how each new thought makes his body tense up more and more in Matsukawa’s hold. He knows it must be obvious, but Matsukawa doesn’t comment. It’s only when they swing around and Hanamaki meets Oikawa’s openly pleased gaze that he can’t seem to hold it together any longer. 

Hanamaki feels hot all over and Matsukawa’s kindness and charm is just too much for him to handle right now. 

“Sorry, I just—I think I need some air,” he says, pulling away from Matsukawa as gently as he can and beelining it towards the wall of sliding glass that leads to the side-patio made for smoking. 

He doesn’t look back, but he can feel Matsukawa’s eyes following him just the same. 

* * *

Matsukawa nurses a glass of whiskey, keeping his distance but not letting Hanamaki out of his sight through the glass separating them.

He thinks about Oikawa asking him if Hanamaki was _okay_. At the time he hadn’t been sure of his answer, but now—

Matsukawa sets his glass down too heavily on the table, making Kindaichi jump in his seat, but he’s already halfway across the room and tugging his suit jacket back on to stave off the chill he can already feel coming. 

The patio itself is small, concrete, with a railing that looks out onto a spread of gardens. Above his head a few strings of glass bulbs twinkle out dull, amber light. In the center of the gardens stands an old ginkgo tree, leaves a dusky orange beneath the moonlight. 

They’re alone, save whatever curious eyes might be watching them from within the reception room. 

“Are you okay?” Matsukawa asks firmly, because he’s been beating around the bush for long enough now and he needs an actual, concrete answer for once. 

Hanamaki grants him a small look over his shoulder from where he leans against the railing. He doesn't seem very surprised at the question or Matsukawa’s tone. “I’m fine, Issei.” 

“You don’t seem fine,” Matsukawa presses, because he can’t help it now that the floodgates are loosening. 

“Seriously, it’s okay.” Hanamaki turns towards him, faces him almost head-on, but not quite. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Please Hiro, will you just talk to me?” He hates how desperate he must sound. “Is this about—about Reiji?”

“No,” Hanamaki answers immediately, forcefully, brows furrowing heavily over eyes Matsukawa can see now look a little redder than usual. “Fuck no. This isn’t about him at all.” 

“Then what?” Matsukawa moves forward, feels pulled in like a magnet. He hovers a hand over Hanamaki’s shoulder without actually pressing down. “Hiro—"

Hanamaki doesn’t have to so much as flinch for Matsukawa to take back his hand. He feels winded when those eyes finally look at him fully and they’re not wet, but they’re not exactly dry either. 

The man before him looks unsteady, from alcohol sure, but there’s something else too. 

_Do you consider me high maintenance?_ The words are a foreign memory seeping into his subconscious, brutal and cutting but it’s not Matsukawa who they’d managed to get their hooks into. 

Had Hanamaki been repressing emotion all this time just because of one stupid person’s opinion of him? He couldn’t possibly be that damaged, not Hanamaki. It had to be something else—it _had_ to be. 

“It’s just—” Hanamaki says, finally, in a low voice that Matsukawa has to strain to hear properly. “I’ve been thinking about that night at your place.”

Matsukawa freezes at that, but he doesn’t let the panic set in because he doesn’t have the right to be the one panicking in this situation.

No. He knew he should have never let something like that happen. How stupid of him, he knew not to—he _knew_. 

Hanamaki picks through his words carefully, almost as though he’d practiced this very exchange before. “I feel like maybe I took advantage of the situation.“

Matsukawa’s throat absolutely aches as he tries to interrupt. “No, you don’t have to—”

But Hanamaki is quick to pull back the reigns. “Let me finish, Issei.”

Matsukawa doesn’t want him to finish, he really doesn’t, because if anyone should be apologizing about taking advantage of a situation it should be _him_. But he also doesn’t want to take this away from him, doesn’t want Hanamaki to feel like he can’t talk to him like this. 

“It was good, really,” Hanamaki explains and his expression seems genuine, at least from what Matsukawa can tell with his vision starting to blur around the edges. “But we probably shouldn’t do it again, don’t you think?”

_Don’t you think?_

What is he supposed to say to that? Is he supposed to agree? To argue? Is this when he gets to apologize too? Because if Hanamaki thinks he’s going to bear all the burden then— 

“You’re my best friend,” Hanamaki says and now he sounds almost as if he’s actually scared. His walls are slowly starting to crumble but Matsukawa isn’t sure he’ll be able to make it to the other side either way. “I don’t want to fuck that up anymore than I probably already have.” 

Matsukawa’s hands start to shake as everything he’d been trying to build up to starts slowly slipping through his fingers. 

It hurts, his chest aches with it. He knows Hanamaki isn’t doing this on purpose, isn’t trying to rip Matsukawa apart like this; it’s self-preservation, that much is clear now. 

He thinks about Hanamaki, pliant beneath his hands, soft and calmer than he could ever remember. They’re both guilty, they had both taken advantage. No one was to blame except circumstances and the irrepressible impulse of human nature. But seeking comfort isn’t something to apologize for. 

“Hiro,” Matsukawa whispers and, even though he knows how wrong it is, he wants so desperately to reach out and kiss him. “You haven’t fucked anything up.” 

_You didn’t do anything wrong,_ he wants to say. _Please believe me,_ he wants to beg. 

But instead he doesn’t say anything more because maybe he’s scared too. 

There’s a tiny part of him that thinks maybe this still isn’t what had been bothering Hanamaki at all.

He doesn't ask though, just lets Hanamaki lean into him a little as they watch a swift breeze knock a few dozen golden leaves from their branches, unattainable, fading into the background. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you still believe me...about this story ending happily?


	4. 月

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Feet pad against the tatami mats until Hanamaki’s standing next to him and Matsukawa can smell the amber scented soap he’d used after their soak. Unconsciously, Matsukawa’s hand shifts to latch onto the soft fabric around Hanamaki’s calf, holding him there maybe, testing to make sure he’s not an illusion._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [theme music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4LxZ_kA8cQ)   
>    
> 

Matsukawa leaves his snow damp shoes in the genkan next to a couple of pairs of familiar trainers and Hide’s boots. 

It’s Christmas time in Tokyo and this, according to Oikawa, apparently means he’s finally getting the chance to use the kitchen they’d recently remodeled and all the pristine cookware he’d never had a chance to try out when his days had been taken up by little other than professional volleyball. 

His knee had finally given up last season, though it had hit Iwaizumi harder than even Oikawa. Still, it meant more time together, more time for friends, more time for decorating their previously sparse house (apparently).

Among the few cheesy garlands and decorations strewn about, Matsukawa takes in the walls finally filled with life and memories. There’s photographs dating all the way back to adolescence, award plaques and degrees, countless medals and a bright red framed jersey with Oikawa’s name stitched proudly on the back. The lid from the sake barrel at their reception is pinned up above a few professional photographs of family and friends and the happy couple all dressed to the nines. 

Matsukawa remembers the night well, if not also for having celebrated his closest friend’s union. 

From the kitchen wafts the smell of actual food, something warm and spicy. Matsukawa lets it draw him in, Hide close behind until they’re met with the marble and stainless steel masterpiece that is the new Iwaizumi-Oikawa dream kitchen. 

“Nothing’s burning yet,” Matsukawa says by way of greeting. “So that seems promising.”

Oikawa’s in front of the stove, monitoring a few pots with an obscene amount of care, and Iwaizumi sits at the island with a watchful eye and a smirk for Matsukawa’s attempt at humor. 

“He means thank you for having us,” Hide says, ever tactful, and places the bottle of red wine he’d picked out just for the occasion atop the counter. He’s still in his work clothes, impeccable suit like usual, even though Matsukawa had changed into something more casual before catching the train to Hide’s complex. 

“Even without your partner in crime you’re still a menace,” Oikawa mumbles, stirring a thick, yellow sauce with a bamboo spoon. The steam circles up through the air and clings to his glasses. 

Matsukawa just shrugs, but he watches Hide’s fingers start to tap away at the kitchen counter. It’s a habit, one Matsukawa hasn’t entirely figured out yet, but lately it’s not been associated with anything positive. 

“How has the end of the year been treating you?” Iwaizumi asks, rifling through a drawer to produce a hefty silver corkscrew.

“Well enough, but things are busy of course,” Hide answers easily. “We’ve all been putting in extra hours. I swear sometimes Issei’s still there even after the cleaning crew.” 

There’s subtly to the jab, but Matsukawa can tell by the tone in Hide’s words that it’s a jab nonetheless. He smiles anyways, laughs at Oikawa’s chastising reprimand from the stove, and accepts a heavily poured glass of wine from a commiserating Iwaizumi. 

Hide delves into a long, drawn out explanation of quarterly reports and year end meetings and all the things Matsukawa would have much rather have left behind at work. More often than not it was nice dating someone that worked for the same company as himself—meeting in the lobby for lunch or enjoying each other’s presence at retreats or conferences. But, maybe sometimes he and Hide had a little _too_ much in common. 

The conversation is all very— _adult_. Not that Matsukawa minds adult conversations considering they have, in fact, reached _adulthood_ ; he’ll be thirty in nearly two months after all. But still, this isn’t exactly the type of conversation he wants to indulge in with his friends after a long week at work having these exact same conversations.

Oikawa is plating up dishes of chicken curry with sweet potatoes, simmered tofu in dashi-kombu, and roasted eggplant slathered in ponzu sauce. He looks exceedingly pleased with himself and Matsukawa can’t help but agree, eyeing the plates and trying his best to ignore the bubbling in his gut as Hide continues his rant on office politics or something like that. 

They sit together at a western style dining table, Matsukawa’s hand sliding to Hide’s knee on instinct until it’s brushed off when the other man crosses his legs abruptly. The food in front of Matsukawa’s plate smells absolutely delicious, but suddenly it seems like his appetite has disappeared. 

He blinks, staring at the wine clinging to the sides of his glass, the way Oikawa pokes playfully at Iwaizumi’s chopsticks with his own, the picture on the wall in the background from high school graduation that he hasn’t seen in nearly a decade. 

“Remember the Christmas—I think we were in college still—and there was a huge snow storm and we got snowed in at your parent’s house while they were at your sister’s, Oikawa? Hanamaki and I brought fried chicken and Asahi Super Dry even though we were still underage and we got _so_ drunk. That was the night we played strip _buta no shippo_ and Hanamaki lost so bad and he was so pissed—remember him sitting on your bedroom floor ass-naked and fuming mad?” 

All the eyes at the table slowly draw to Matsukawa and he realizes, bizarrely, that those rambling words just now had come straight out of his own mouth. 

There’s a moment where no one says anything in return, not an ounce of acknowledgement for the odd memory he’d decided, out-of-the-blue, to dredge up. But then with a horrible snorting sound Oikawa starts to laugh, trying desperately to cover his chortles in the palm of his hand but absolutely unable to do so. 

Matsukawa isn’t sure if it’s over Oikawa’s embarrassingly ugly laughter or the story itself, but Iwaizumi isn’t too far behind with his own deep (decidedly less obnoxious) chuckling. Hide does not laugh, though he does glance over at Matsukawa a bit curiously, watching him carefully as though he might just start spewing random anecdotes again any second. 

“Yes, yes,” Oikawa breathes out, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes. “Hajime was a close second—we got him down to his underwear and he was so embarrassed.”

Iwaizumi’s own laughter stops abruptly so that he can turn a grumpy look onto his husband. “I was _not_ embarrassed—” 

“It’s not like we all haven’t seen each other naked,” Matsukawa says around a smirk and only when he hears a surprised noise from beside him does he really think about what he’d said. 

Hide’s looking at the three of them with wide, uncertain eyes. This only proves to send Oikawa back into a fit of uncontainable laughter, the dinner he’d painstakingly crafted mostly forgotten. 

Iwaizumi is quick to explain however. “He means in the club room,” he says. “After volleyball practice.” 

It’s funny, but Matsukawa’s not entirely sure Hide even knows that he played volleyball in high school. 

“Oh,” Hide nods, looking a little sheepish, but still somewhat dubious. He shifts to catch Matsukawa’s gaze. “And Hanamaki too? That’s why you’ve seen him—I mean, in the club room?” 

Something strange and incredibly awkward lumbers into the room, hopefully invisible to everyone else, but glaringly prominent to Matsukawa. His throat tightens a little, but he nods before he can stop himself. “Yeah,” he answers and at least it’s not a _total_ lie. 

If Oikawa or Iwaizumi feel the need to interject with anything more, they don’t and Matsukawa is grateful for that even if he can feel the way Oikawa’s eyes have started to bore into the side of his face. Unfortunately the laughter has since dried up and now the four of them are left in this odd state of limbo. 

He thinks somewhere along the line that Iwaizumi changes the subject, something about Hide’s extracurricular activities when he was younger, something Matsukawa thinks probably he should already know about but doesn’t just the same. 

* * *

“So, you think he’s gonna propose?” Hanamaki holds his phone up to his lips as he speaks, even though it’s on speaker. He’s lounging back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, or what little he can see of it through the darkness of a winter evening home alone.

“ _I mean, probably not for a little while longer,_ ” Tamiko answers with a flustered little laugh. She sounds distracted and Hanamaki imagines her sitting at her desk with a pile of books or papers in front of her, laptop open and pen in hand. “ _But mom and dad have already put their stamp of approval on him of course._ ”

“Of course,” Hanamaki nods to no one in particular, smirking at the thought. “If you get engaged I think mom will finally give up hope on me miraculously becoming heterosexual.” 

“ _Takahiro_ ,” his sister sighs, sounding only mildly reprimanding. “ _You know she doesn’t think that way—mom loves you no matter what—_ ”

“I know she does,” Hanamaki interrupts before she can go any further. He’d not really been serious anyways, at least not entirely. “But that doesn’t mean she still doesn’t secretly dream of me getting married someday.”

“ _You can still get married,_ ” Tamiko immediately replies, matter-of-fact and unbudging, but still somewhat distracted. 

Hanamaki thinks about that for a second, thinks about the hoops he’d have to jump through and how naive dreams can grow up to be nearly impossible realities simply because of how you’re wired. 

“Maybe,” he concedes after a few seconds. “But if _you_ get married first then all the pressure’s off me. Hell, you and what’s-his-name can have a kick-ass reception if you pool both of our wedding funds.” 

“ _Koji_ ,” Tamiko reminds with a fond little huff. “ _And I’m not planning anything extravagant—though I’m sure I’ll be forced into inviting every single known living relative_.”

“See, that sounds awful, I don’t want to have a wedding anyways if I’ve gotta deal with guest lists and all that bullshit.”

On the other end Hanamaki can hear some rustling of papers and then his sister’s voice a little softer and clearer than before, like she’d picked up her phone to focus her attention all to him. “ _Takahiro, I thought you’d moved past those broody, self-deprecating teenage years?_ ”

It’s said in such a way that Hanamaki is sure it’s meant to be light and teasing, but the underlying meaning is hard to miss. Especially considering he and his sister have never been ones to mince words, especially not between each other. 

“I’m just saying don’t hold your breath,” he explains, bending his knees to plant his feet against the mattress. “I haven’t been serious with anyone since Judai, and that was going on six months ago now.”

There’s a pause, long enough for Hanamaki to hear his sister’s steady breathing through their connection, long enough for him to go back in his mind and dissect everything he’s just said. But it’s the truth—he’s been so caught up at work and just staying afloat that he hadn’t had time for any serious dating. And besides, he doesn’t really care, doesn’t really _need_ a relationship at this point anyways—

“ _You know, don’t take this the wrong way,_ ” Tamiko says finally and the words are cautious though clearly practiced. “ _But there was a time when I thought maybe you and Matsukawa—_ ”

Hanamaki’s entire body stiffens against his bedsheets, his pulse speeding up and a flush burning out over his whole body. “Tamiko, _don’t_ —”

“ _What? I’m just saying—I thought you liked him,_ ” Tamiko cuts him off, rather bluntly. 

Hanamaki frowns, fingers tightening around his phone. “He’s my best friend.”

“ _Isn’t that the first step to a long lasting and healthy relationship?_ ” 

“It’s not—you don’t understand.” Hanamaki’s mouth feels dry and thick and his eyes itch until he squeezes them tightly shut. 

“ _I guess not,_ ” Tamiko says, tone soft and genuine. “ _Sorry if I upset you. I just hate to see you unhappy is all._ ”

“Who says I’m unhappy?” Hanamaki breathes in then out, feeling himself level back out enough for him to open his eyes again. Above him the ceiling is just a dim, swirling mass of shadows. “I’m actually doing really well right now, Tamiko.”

And for once, that’s not even a lie. 

“ _I know,_ ” she answers and he can hear her nodding on the other end, can picture the way she’s tugging fingers through her long, strawberry hair. “ _But still, don’t you ever feel like something’s missing?_ ”

If he answers that question, Hanamaki thinks, then his earlier statement _will_ be a lie. So instead, he just doesn’t answer at all. 

* * *

Through the blue-tone glow of his laptop screen, Matsukawa sees Hide approaching, half-asleep but fully dressed. It doesn’t take him long to see it coming, past the numbers and deadlines swirling around in his mind, but that doesn’t mean he’s prepared.

“Issei, we need to talk.”

It’s those four words that everyone dreads, the most common trope of every romantic comedy or drama laid out in front of him and somehow Matsukawa doesn’t feel even an ounce of dread or disappointment in his gut. 

He nods anyway, like he doesn’t know exactly what it is Hide is about to say.

“Alright,” Matsukawa says, his eyes just barely pulling away from the computer screen to catch the heavy bags under Hide’s own. “What do you want to talk about?”

* * *

 

The sound of leather slamming against the gymnasium floor sends a nostalgic shiver straight up Hanamaki’s spine, pleasant and exciting. When was the last time he’d been in a place like this, with actual courts and regulation nets? He’s not sure, but the way his shoes scuff away at the rubber beneath his feet isn’t a sensation he’ll ever truly be over he realizes. 

“Takes me back,” Oikawa says beside him, breathing in deeply through his nose as he stretches his arms up over his head.

“You’re aging yourself, old man,” Hanamaki chuckles, following suit and reaching back for his ankle to stretch out the front of his thigh. It hasn’t been as many years off the court for Oikawa as it has been for Hanamaki, but he knows his friend has been missing volleyball the most out of all of them.

Oikawa’s eyes roll to the ceiling, illuminated by big fluorescent lights. “If I’m old, then you’re old, Makki.”

“Never as old as you.” Hanamaki’s head shakes with his snickers, eyes catching on a couple of familiar frames walking towards them.“Besides—you and Iwaizumi have been that typical old married couple since we were in high school.”

“We weren’t even together in high school!” Oikawa squawks, fingers toying with the brace around his knee. 

“You basically were,” Matsukawa interjects, coming up to stand next to Hanamaki, only a few inches separating their shoulders. “You were both just so far deep in denial at that point.”

Iwaizumi grunts something like an argument, but doesn’t actually go so far as to voice anything like his counterpart. In fact, Hanamaki is certain he can see the faint pinkness over his dark cheeks and that little hint of a smile. Over the years, Iwaizumi’s romantic side has really started to reveal itself. 

“Doesn’t matter anyways,” Hanamaki snorts. “You’re definitely an old married couple _now_.”

Oikawa pulls a face, something childish and ugly and it makes them all laugh a little indulgently. They continue to stretch, grouped up together and falling into a rhythm almost as if they’d never left their team back at Aoba Johsai. Next to him, Hanamaki can feel the heat of Matsukawa’s body, can hear the way he breathes in deeply, filling his lungs and exhaling in a soothing pattern. Unconsciously Hanamaki starts to mimic him until he can feel his head and chest starting to clear just a little bit more than usual. 

“When are you two finally going to settle down?” Oikawa huffs after a few quiet moments. His eyes flick between Hanamaki and Matsukawa, bottom lip pulling down. “I don’t want to be the butt of that joke for the rest of eternity.” 

Hanamaki can’t help that his body instinctively flinches at the words, at the implication that his brain automatically comes up with. Iwaizumi pushes into Oikawa’s shoulder as a mild reprimand, but after a few steadying seconds things click back into place and Hanamaki knows that Oikawa wasn’t referring to them— _‘you two’_ —as a unit. 

Beside him Matsukawa blinks slowly, gaze tracking over Hanamaki’s hopefully neutral expression and then back to Oikawa. “Don’t want to put a damper on that dream,” he says blandly. “But Hide and I broke up.”

The healthy little flush to Oikawa’s cheeks drains away immediately at this news, his entire complexion going white and his eyes blowing wide. “What? Mattsun, are you okay?”

Matsukawa shrugs, a pretty typical gesture from him, but Hanamaki can tell that there’s something a bit more tense about the movement than usual, even from his vantage point out of the edge of his gaze. He doesn’t dare turn to look at the man just yet, not before he can gain some control over his outward expression, unlike their obviously gaping friend.

Iwaizumi busies himself rolling his right ankle in a gentle, clockwise manner. “Sorry to hear that,” he says in that blunt, but genuine way of his. 

Matsukawa goes to shrug again, but catches himself. Instead he just swipes a palm up through his messy curls, a little bit longer than they’d been in some years. “It’s fine—it wasn’t working out anyways. Why prolong the inevitable?” 

“Still, that sucks,” Hanamaki hears himself say. His voice sounds muffled and foggy, like he’s been suddenly submerged under water. Outside there’s the faintest layer of icy snow covering the ground, leftover flurries from the night before, and Hanamaki’s suddenly feeling warm enough to step out the gym’s double doors in nothing more than his shorts and t-shirt. 

Thankfully, Matsukawa doesn’t seem to notice any of this, nodding his agreement and shrugging again like he can’t quite help himself. “There was a lot of underlying stuff, but in the end I just couldn’t give him what he wanted I guess.”

The gymnasium was quiet before, considering they’d managed to get it all to themselves before the local junior rec team showed up after lunch, but now it’s so silent that Hanamaki feels like all the air’s been sucked out through those ugly vents in the ceiling, leaving them all to suffocate.

“Wait,” Oikawa says slowly, edging to fit Matsukawa with an incredulous look. “ _He_ broke up with _you_?”

Amazingly, at this Matsukawa actually manages a smirk. “Don’t act like that—it was pretty mutual,” he explains and even though his voice is even, Hanamaki can still detect the hint of discomfort there too. “Hide’s just the one that initiated the conversation.” 

Oikawa’s head shakes, ignoring the sharp look Iwaizumi sends him. “No breakup is entirely mutual.”

It’s not as though Oikawa making anything into an argument is unusual, but still Hanamaki can’t quite believe that he’s not yet picked up on Matsukawa’s agitation towards the subject. 

“Maybe.” Matsukawa fits his gaze straight on with Oikawa’s own, voice lowering a little more than usual. “But I’m okay with how things ended up.” 

Something claws at the back of Hanamaki’s neck, disquieted and unsure, at Matsukawa’s tone. Though it seems that either the tone or the words have finally managed to lodge themselves into Oikawa’s brain for he just bobs his head, lending Matsukawa a rather sympathetic smile. 

“As long as you’re okay,” Iwaizumi adds, scratching at his forearm almost nervously.

Matsukawa nods and his features lighten back up to their normal, neutral state. “Enough commiserating please,” he says with a bit of bland exasperation. “Are we playing a match or what?” 

“Yeah,” Hanamaki is quick to add, feeling a little shiver of strange adrenaline running through his arms and down through his fingertips. “We’re totally gonna cream you guys.”

Matsukawa throws him a grateful smile, one that Hanamaki holds onto for a moment, enjoying the genuine warmth of it, before he’s cut off by a couple of affronted noises from his left. 

“Is that so?” Iwaizumi rumbles, making a show of cracking his knuckles—which _definitely_ takes Hanamaki back. 

“Hajime, you better not have gone soft on me,” Oikawa nudges him with an elbow, while fitting his opponents with a rather aggressive grin. 

Matsukawa leans into Hanamaki to stage-whisper, “Still a competitive little shit, isn’t he?”

Hanamaki just stares at Oikawa, lips curling. “Shouldn’t you know if your husband’s gone soft?” he asks. “Or has your sex life gotten a bit stale in your old age, Oikawa?”

“Makki!” comes the predictable squawk and when Matsukawa’s rumbling laughter fills his ears Hanamaki almost believes it to be genuine instead of withholding and forced which he knows, deep down inside of his chest, that it is. 

* * *

Even if Matsukawa’s visits there have since become fewer and farther between as the years have rolled by, Hanamaki’s apartment has always felt warm and comforting. He still lives in Setagaya, while Matsukawa had upgraded upon his last promotion to a larger, more modern flat near Hamarikyu Gardens in Chūō. But Matsukawa likes this apartment, likes the familiarity of it—like he’s coming home even if he’s never even spent the night.

Or maybe, it’s not the apartment at all.

“Tantanmen okay?” Hanamaki asks as if he doesn’t already know (has known for quite some time) that it’s Matsukawa’s favorite. 

They’re both in the small kitchen; it’s not much more than some cabinets and a counter along the wall with a stove and a sink, but Hanamaki had fit a rectangular table in the middle of the room to act as an island for more prep space. This is where Matsukawa ends up sitting on a low stool to observe Hanamaki’s quick skills as he slices his way through cloves of garlic and spring onions. 

“If I said ‘no?’” Matsukawa prompts, trying not to grin too wide around the lip of his glass. They’ve already made a dent in the bottle of shōchū Matsukawa had brought along for the occasion, with lemon just how he knows Hanamaki likes it. 

Hanamaki’s eyes roll, but his already flushed cheeks round with his own smile. “Too fuckin’ bad I guess.” 

He’s already preheated a pan on the stove and Matsukawa watches him stir minced pork and cooking sake until the meat starts to brown and sizzle over the high heat. Hanamaki’s always been a good cook, or at least better than Matsukawa. When they were in high school he still remembers sharing homemade tuna-mayonnaise onigiri after school or practice when their parents were at work. 

“I’m glad you called,” Matsukawa says as Hanamaki moves the fry-pan of crumbly pork off the burner to add in a good helping of tenmenjan. “Haven’t had much more than takeout lately.”

“Work’s really been that busy?” Hanamaki murmurs, concentrating on a smaller pan of garlic and sesame oil. 

Matsukawa hums in response. “It’s not so bad. I don’t hate it, it’s just—a lot. The winter holidays will be nice.” 

He doesn’t know exactly how to explain it. To someone else he might say the money’s good, the bonuses worth all those extra hours, but he and Hanamaki have never really talked about things like that. He could say he’s passionate about his work, but that’s really not it either and besides, who’d believe that of someone in his field? 

Matsukawa clears his throat to continue, swirling his glass against the tabletop a little clumsily. “It’s actually one of the things Hide brought up when he—well, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hanamaki nods. The kitchen has since started to fill with the spicy aroma of chili oil and fried garlic, comforting and warming through Matsukawa’s body and the chill of Tokyo winter. 

It’s strange, having this conversation with Hanamaki. Actually, despite having lived through his fair share of breakups over the years, Matsukawa’s not entirely sure he’s ever really had this kind of conversation before—at least not with himself being on the receiving end of those knowing, sympathetic looks. 

Usually it’s Matsukawa giving those knowing, sympathetic looks. 

“You’re wonderful, Issei, the whole package.” Hanamaki’s voice breaks through his internal spiral. “And someday, for the right person, you’re going to make the best husband.”

Matsukawa looks up at this, unable to stop his eyes from widening at the unexpected words. Hanamaki isn’t looking at him though, rather he’s readying two bowls with spoonfuls of tahini paste, soy sauce, rice vinegar, and chili oil. Suddenly Matsukawa’s throat feels swollen and strained; he swallows but it’s as though his muscles are working against him, making it a bit painful.

“You’re the one cooking dinner for me,” he says finally, lips numb around the statement. It’s not what he’d intended to say at all.

“A regular housewife, huh?” Hanamaki snorts, dropping handfuls of noodles into a pot of boiling stock. “Fuck gender-roles.” 

A laugh bubbles up in Matsukawa’s chest at that at least and he doesn’t fight it, but he does stare openly at Hanamaki across the kitchen. Had he really said those things in all seriousness? As though it hadn’t been his own personal dream to be, to _have_ the ‘whole package’ that he’s speaking so cavalierly about? 

Matsukawa’s grip tightens around his glass and before he can crush the thin sides to break and splinter into his palm he brings it up to his mouth to down the remaining alcohol, tart and cool on his tongue. 

The last moments of cooking pass by in silence, the sound of a boiling pot and a meager amount of street traffic outside the only background noise. Matsukawa watches Hanamaki ladle broth into the waiting bowls, adding a heap of strained noodles with the minced pork and chopped spring onions on top. 

“Hope it’s as good as that place we used to go to in university,” Hanamaki says, placing a bowl down in front of Matsukawa along with a pair of mismatched chopsticks and a soup spoon. 

Matsukawa stares down into the red tinged broth, steam rising up to coat the skin of his flushed cheeks. He picks up his chopsticks, holding them between his palms as they each mutter out a near silent prayer before dipping in to pluck at a piece of pork. 

It takes him a few bites, tongue tingling from the chili oil, but when he looks up he’s sure to catch Hanamaki’s eye across the small kitchen table. “It’s better,” Matsukawa announces, with no hint of amusement or falsity. 

Hanamaki watches him, licks a bit of broth from his lips. “Thanks, I’m glad you like it.” 

Impulsively Matsukawa has the sudden urge to ask him to cook like this for him more often, that he’d cook for Hanamaki too or at least bring over takeout or do the dishes. To tell him that they should spend more time like this together, not just an occasional meal shared or volleyball match with friends. 

It’s been years since they’d really spent time like this together and Matsukawa’s stomach clenches at the thought that if this is what’s happened to their friendship, their relationship between one another over just a few years of true adulthood then what would happen to it on the fast approaching other side of thirty? 

“Remember when we stayed in Osaka with Tamiko—the time my parents visited?”

The question comes a bit out of nowhere and when Matsukawa jerks his gaze up suddenly he finds Hanamaki’s eyes clouded a bit with something like nostalgia. 

He does remember that trip, vividly in fact—the way neon lights and flash signboards lit up against Hanamaki’s skin, the reminiscent conversations and the weight of adulthood settling onto their shoulders, that 100 yen shop where Hanamaki admitted that his ambitious Grand Master Plan had slipped slowly but surely between his fingers. Matsukawa remembers it all, including Sumiyoshi-taisha Shrine and that 300 yen Omamori pouch. 

“I’ve been trying to make takoyaki like that, but it’s never as good as when you get it from a vendor or in a restaurant,” Hanamaki explains. He’s still got a far away look in his eye and hasn’t seemed to notice the way Matsukawa’s fingers have started to curl around his chopsticks. “I just can’t get it right.”

“Next time you make it,” Matsukawa says, the words tumbling from his mouth. “I’ll be your official taste tester.”

The smile he gets in return is so full and genuine that it almost catches Matsukawa off guard. Here he thought drudging up such memories was going to send Hanamaki into a spiral, but it seems maybe Matsukawa is the only one that can’t seem to get over that time and place. 

“So kind of you,” Hanamaki simpers. He moves to slurp up a few noodles, cheeking them before continuing his thought. “That was a fun trip, too bad Tamiko moved back to Sendai. I miss doing things like that with you.” 

The admittance is almost more than Matsukawa knows what to do with. It’s not as though they’d been purposefully distancing themselves from one another, at least not recently, but it had been starting to feel more permanent than not. 

But the way Hanamaki is staring at him, hesitantly waiting for a response, an answer to the unspoken question now hanging in the space between them over bowls of spicy ramen and a half empty bottle of shōchū, it’s almost too much.

A few more seconds pass in silence, Matsukawa’s tongue starting to feel too big for his mouth, but when Hanamaki blinks his gaze back down to his food, in that moment Matsukawa lets his chopsticks go with a clink against the side of his own bowl. “We should go on a trip like that again,” he says, probably too loudly. 

Hanamaki looks back up, looks more surprised than Matsukawa thinks he aught to. “What?”

“We should take a trip like that again. It doesn’t have to be to Osaka, but—you said you miss doing that, so we should go somewhere,” Matsukawa announces, feeling something almost giddy tugging beneath his ribcage. “Together—if you want to, I mean.”

Hanamaki seems to mull this over for a moment, contemplating before letting his lips pull into a soft grin. “That would be fun. I haven’t had a real vacation in a while,” he nods. “You got a lot of vacation days at work?” 

“I can take time off,” Matsukawa replies, brushing it off because there’s no way he’s going to let work mess _this_ up. “Maybe for new years?” 

“I’ll have to check, but I’m sure I can swing a couple of days, so long as I finish up some of my projects beforehand,” Hanamaki explains, rubbing a finger over his jaw before his eyes light up. “We should go to an onsen.”

Of course the first thing that Matsukawa’s traitorous brain jumps to is the image of a very much _naked_ Hanamaki, skin dewy with steam and sprawled languidly in a hot spring. 

Matsukawa blinks, swallows. “Whatever you want,” he says, ignoring the way his voice nearly cracks. 

Hanamaki’s cheeks are round with his grin, a little pink from the spicy ramen and shared alcohol. “I’m really glad you came over tonight, Issei,” he hums and the words are overflowing with a genuine happiness Matsukawa hasn’t seen in—he’s not even sure how long at this point. “I’ve missed you.”

The admittance warms all the way through Matsukawa’s body, through the December chill attacking the thin panes of Hanamaki’s apartment windows. He smiles, feeling his own bit of happiness pooling in his chest. “I’ve missed you too, Hiro.” 

* * *

Hanamaki isn’t sure about Matsukawa, but it hadn’t been hard convincing his boss for the extra day off before new years. In fact Daisuke-san had been planning his own family trip to Nagoya and was more than happy to send Hanamaki on his way a little bit early, wishing him a relaxing break and good fortune in the new year.

It’s times like this that Hanamaki is thankful for his position on Rakuten Crimson House’s design team, even if it doesn’t pay as well as others—say, someone who works as an analyst for Softbank. 

“ _I can’t believe he’s taking you to an onsen,_ ” Oikawa’s voice crackles over the phone. He and Iwaizumi are currently en route to Sendai to spend new years with their parents and siblings. Through the shaky connection Hanamaki can make out the low rumble of Oikawa’s Lexus IS, telling him he’s definitely on speaker through the car’s stereo system. 

Hanamaki squints down at the cotton shirt he’s folding. “He’s not _taking_ me, we’re going _together,_ ” he corrects with a grimace Oikawa cannot see, but hopefully can hear. “Don’t make it weird.”

There comes a deep chuckle on the other end before Iwaizumi says, “ _Do you remember at all who you’re talking to?_ ” 

“ _I’m not making anything weird!_ ” Oikawa whines to the both of them. “ _I just think it’s nice is all—that you’re spending more time together._ ” 

“You’re right, Iwa,” Hanamaki deadpans in favor of ignoring Oikawa entirely. “How could I forget?”

“ _You’ll have to let us know how the place is,”_ Iwaizumi continues on, bypassing a disgruntled noise from his husband. “ _Sounds like it’ll be relaxing. I’m sure Matsukawa is looking forward to leaving work behind for a couple of days_.”

Hanamaki fiddles with the zipper on his duffle bag, already halfway filled with clothing he probably won’t even need. He wonders if Matsukawa would argue against Iwaizumi’s statement if he were there listening in.

“Yeah, you’re right. He needs it more than me, I think,” Hanamaki says, absently tucking a loose sweatshirt sleeve into the bag so he can close it up properly. 

“ _You both need it, Makki,_ ” Oikawa’s voice rings out, almost as though he’s right there in the room with him giving one of those annoying, knowing looks of his. 

Hanamaki hums, not able to altogether disagree. “Maybe.” 

“ _We’ll let you finish getting packed,_ ” Iwaizumi says. “ _Talk to you both when you get back. We can go to dinner or something, yeah?_ ”

“Sure thing.”

“ _Take lots of pictures, okay?_ ” Oikawa adds. “ _And bring your best friend a souvenir._ ”

At this Hanamaki snorts, lips tugging up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Issei’s going to be there with me.”

“ _Makki—_ ”

“ _Have fun and enjoy your time off together,_ ” Iwaizumi interrupts easily. “ _And happy new year._ ”

Hanamaki’s smirk morphs into a soft smile. “Happy new year. Tell your folks hello.”

“ _Will do_ ,” Iwaizumi replies over the sound of a rumbling car engine. 

“ _Bye bye, Makki,_ ” Oikawa sings just before the call ends. “ _Don’t have too much fun without us!_ ”

* * *

The first thing Matsukawa realizes about Shuzenji is that the air is significantly fresher than the staleness he’s used to from Tokyo. It’s also significantly colder, the chill of winter wind nipping at his exposed cheeks as he and Hanamaki make their way up the front walk of the ryokan he’d manage to reserves last minute .

Good thing they’re here primarily for the hot springs, otherwise Hanamaki might just find every excuse to stay inside the entire trip; Matsukawa knows well his friend’s aversion to cold weather. Actually, Matsukawa has to resist the urge to throw an arm over the other’s shoulders as they gather up their luggage and room keys, eyeing the way Hanamaki’s ears have turned almost red at the tips. 

“This place is too nice,” Hanamaki whispers, keeping his voice unnecessarily low as they amble up the set of polished wood stairs leading to the second floor. “How much did you say it was again?” 

Matsukawa just shrugs because actually he hadn’t told Hanamaki how much he’d put down to reserve the room over the new years holiday and he wasn’t exactly planning on telling him either. “Don’t worry about that—think of it like an early birthday present,” he answers as blandly as possible. He doesn’t imagine Hanamaki will be offended, but just to be safe.

Hanamaki fumbles with the key to their door, one of those programmed cards that unlocks with a swipe. “Charming, Issei,” he says and sounds more or less genuine. “Then I’ll be picking up your meals—think of it as an early birthday present.” 

Matsukawa can’t quite stifle his laughter at this, but it’s only fitting coming from Hanamaki. He inclines his head in agreement, not feeling the incessant need to argue like he might’ve if he’d been traveling with anyone else. 

Their room is simple but traditional, all light wood and rice-paper screens and tatami mats. To the right of the entrance is a small bedroom and bath complete with a decently sized tub looking out onto the gardens. To the left is a living space with a square chubadai surrounded by plush cushions and a narrow deck holding two wicker chairs and a view of the bubbling Kitamata River below. It is quite nice, clean and comfortable, and Matsukawa figures at some point Hanamaki will no doubt inquire about the room rate again. 

They’ve got enough time before dinner for a soak and Hanamaki’s eagerness is enough to push all of Matsukawa’s thoughts about work and adulthood and _life_ out of his mind for their limited time here together. 

Downstairs they leave their clothes in a pair of metal lockers and wash thoroughly before wrapping fluffy towels around their waists and saunter out into the cold towards the ryokan’s largest outdoor bath. 

The air nips harshly at Matsukawa’s exposed chest and it nearly takes his breath straight out of his lungs. Beside him, Hanamaki makes a rather high pitched noise in the back of his throat and lengthens his strides carefully over the cold, slick stone tiles that lead to the hot spring. 

There’s a few older men grouped together to the left of a softly pouring waterfall, but otherwise it’s not at all crowded with guests or tourists. Hanamaki dips in first, shivering visibly at the intensity of the water’s temperature and the air’s unforgiving chill. Matsukawa takes a moment to watch the man remove his towel, revealing an unmarred swath of creamy skin before he submerges up to his stomach, angling towards a wall of stone that looks out to a tall fence of crisp bamboo. 

When the water hits Matsukawa’s skin he has to try not to wince at the sensation, heat clawing over his skin where it had nearly frozen over just a few seconds before. He folds his towel next to Hanamaki’s at the bath’s edge, wading to follow the other man who’s already settled onto a bench, the water lapping at his shoulders and neck. 

“Issei,” Hanamaki mutters, but it comes out more like a groan as he lets his eyes slip closed and his mouth pull into a lazy, pleased smile. The way his name sounds in that voice is way more obscene than it should be and Matsukawa has to make sure that he leaves an appropriate amount of space between their bodes when he slumps further into the water. 

“S’good,” Matsukawa says back, letting his own eyes fall closed as warmth starts to leach into his body. He hadn’t even realized how sore and taught his muscles were until now, relaxing back in the hot spring and letting the water do its work. 

They sit together in peaceful silence for a while, letting the faint sound of the waterfall and the luscious warmth lull them into a languid state. Overhead the grey sky darkens slowly, a faint bit of lilac spreading across the thick clouds as the sun makes its way into the horizon. 

When Matsukawa next peels his eyes open he finds Hanamaki staring dazedly into the water, dark with the black stones lining the bottom, and watching the rings and eddies his fingers make when he swirls them just beneath the surface. His cheeks are flushed from the heat and the steam has left his short hair curling at the edges, lashes clinging with moisture. 

Matsukawa isn’t sure the last time he was this close to Hanamaki, close enough to see those lashes and the way they lay thick and pretty against freckle dusted skin. 

“Tamiko’s going to get engaged soon,” Hanamaki says, nothing more than a breathless whisper only for Matsukawa’s ears.

It’s not what Matsukawa was expecting him to say, but he goes with it nonetheless. “Really? That’s great,” he replies, trying to keep his voice a neutral as possible until he can read Hanamaki a bit better. 

Hanamaki nods and his lips pull into something believable. “It is. I’m happy for her.” 

This is the point where someone like Oikawa would probably poke and prod, say something like _“But—?”_ and leave the question hanging for Hanamaki to continue on.

But Matsukawa says nothing, leaves the silence be and lets Hanamaki continue to stare at his hands beneath the water. 

After some time Hanamaki’s mouth opens again, his tone less soft. “This is really nice,” he says, turning to face Matsukawa. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“You’re the one that came up with it,” Matsukawa answers. “It was a good idea.” 

“Yeah,” Hanamaki says and his voice has turned almost dazed and Matsukawa wonders if its from the heat or something else altogether. 

They soak a bit longer and when Hanamaki complains of an empty stomach they make their way back to the room together, pink skinned and thoroughly warmed through.

Hanamaki orders a hotpot of amagi shamo chicken, warm sake, and red bean soup with mochi to satisfy his sweet tooth. They eat together at the low table, comfortable in their cozy room and the easy silence that blankets them as the sake dwindles until the carafe is nearly empty. 

Matsukawa feels content and lazy as he watches Hanamaki across from him, leaning his arm against the table heavily and licking at a bit of sweet red paste from his spoon. He feels so warm and easy and brimming with something he can’t quite put his finger on, but it’s really a nice feeling so he doesn’t think on it too hard. Instead he just continues to study the man across from him. 

Hanamaki hums, sipping the last of his sake from his cup and moving to stand, stretching his legs and newly relaxed muscles. Matsukawa feels hazy and dreamy and he can’t imagine Hanamaki feeling any different. 

Then all of a sudden Hanamaki’s got his hands tucked into the sides of his sweatpants, just resting there with the waistband digging into his wrists and Matsukawa’s throat tightens with the incredible amount of stupid nostalgia that the simple habit threatens to choke him with. 

His shirt’s rucked up a bit to expose the soft flesh of his stomach, not as taught as it was in their younger days, but smooth and inviting and Matsukawa’s fingers twitch against the table top. 

“Issei?” Hanamaki’s voice cuts through his swirling thoughts, Matsukawa’s eyes flicking slowly up to meet Hanamaki’s own, feeling heavy and tired even if his mind feels entirely awake. “You’re staring.” 

There’s just the tiniest slur to Hanamaki’s words, just enough that Matsukawa should know better, but still lets his tongue flick out to wet his bottom lip. “Yeah,” he answers, because denying it would be almost impossible at this point. 

He thinks about Hanamaki’s naked form in the hot spring earlier, only a few inches from his own. About his flushed skin and thick lashes and the soft, barely there sadness of his voice. 

Feet pad against the tatami mats until Hanamaki’s standing next to him and Matsukawa can smell the amber scented soap he’d used after their soak. Unconsciously, Matsukawa’s hand shifts to latch onto the soft fabric around Hanamaki’s calf, holding him there maybe, testing to make sure he’s not an illusion. 

Hanamaki makes some sort of noise, no more than a gasp of breath, maybe out of surprise or else encouragement. His legs bend until his knees hit the cushion Matsukawa’s still occupying and Matsukawa’s hand falls away only to replace its hold this time up and over the heated skin of Hanamaki’s neck. 

They’re eye to eye, but Hanamaki refuses to meet his gaze, staring powerfully at Matsukawa’s mouth and he might be a little dazed, a little tipsy but so is Matsukawa. 

He doesn’t dare move when Hanamaki leans forward to press their lips together with nothing more than a gentle peck, but it’s enough for Matsukawa’s fingers to tighten against Hanamaki’s skin. 

“This okay?” Hanamaki breathes out against his mouth. Matsukawa shivers but nods, pulling him in with another hand moving to grapple at his hip. 

And suddenly Hanamaki is in his lap, straddling him with those thick, familiar thighs and Matsukawa thinks that it’s more than just deja vu—they’ve been here before, tangled together like this, drunk on sake and each other.

They kiss and cling to shoulders and necks, lapping into each other’s mouths and nipping at lips and sensitive flesh until Matsukawa’s brain makes a rational yet abrupt decision and hefts his hands beneath Hanamaki’s thighs. It takes a bit of fumbling and amazingly he manages to get his feet under him with Hanamaki still wrapped up in his arms. 

“Wha—” Hanamaki gasps out, pushing further into Matsukawa’s chest to wrap his arms steadier around his neck. He snorts out a laugh into Matsukawa’s neck as he starts to amble the two of them into the little bedroom already laid out with futons and plush down blankets. 

Matsukawa sets Hanamaki down gently, though the man still lets himself fall onto his back with an amused huff. His knees click and his back feels a little stiff when he straightens, but Matsukawa can’t be bothered when he sees that Hanamaki’s shirt has been pushed up towards his chest, his stomach quivering with each breath and soft chuckle. 

After all these years, he’s not sure he’s ever seen Hanamaki quite like this before.

“Hey,” Matsukawa says, his voice rougher than he thought. He’s doesn’t know exactly what it is that he’s doing, but he kneels before Hanamaki and watches over him.

Hanamaki’s lips pull up. “Hey,” he says back. 

It’s enough of an understanding for the both of them, it seems. 

Matsukawa makes quick work of Hanamaki’s pants, pulling them away in a rather smooth motion even as Hanamaki himself is wriggling out of his t-shirt at the same time. Fingers paw at Matsukawa’s clothes just as quickly, Hanamaki tugging none too gently to reveal with swell of a half-hard cock that matches his own.

They’re as naked and as close as they were in the hot spring and yet now is when Matsukawa feels himself pausing, hesitating. 

It’s Hanamaki that crawls over to his duffel bag, rifling through it until he’s able to toss a small bottle of lube and a condom onto the futon with little finesse. He seems somewhat impatient, somewhat on edge and Matsukawa doesn’t blame him with the way his cock twitches at the sight of Hanamaki’s bent backside and the slope of his spine. 

He grabs the lube and already Hanamaki is back on the futon, legs splayed and inviting without question. Matsukawa swallows down a groan, shuffling forward to nudge his knees under Hanamaki’s, aching to touch in anyway possible. 

Matsukawa leans over the body laid out before him, fingers slick wth lube and when he presses gently over Hanamaki’s entrance a hand reflexively tangles in his hair, pulling him down until they’re lips are slotted together. 

He works Hanamaki open slowly, kissing over his mouth and jaw and neck, swallowing all those little breathy sounds when he finds just the right spot inside. The taste of sake is nearly gone now but it still lingers, buzzing on Matsukawa’s tongue. He pants against the corner of Hanamaki’s lips when his own cock brushes the soft underside of Hanamaki’s thigh, swollen and growing more sensitive with each passing second. 

His hips jerk fully when Hanamaki arches up to catch his teeth against the lobe of his ear, trailing nips and wet kisses down the edge of his neck and that’s when Matsukawa finally pulls his fingers free, leaving Hanamaki to gasp at the sensation. 

“Ready?” he asks, a little unsteady.

Hanamaki’s arm falls to the blankets, searching for the condom and thrusting it impatiently into Matsukawa’s hands. “C’mon,” he answers, _demands_. 

They’re both already out of breath, panting into each other’s mouths lazily as Matsukawa thrusts forward gently, working himself inside. Hanamaki is tight around him, the air between them hot and tacky against their bare skin. Once he’s fully seated Matsukawa rocks forward and Hanamaki moans, lip sticking where he’d had it pressed to Matsukawa’s shoulder. 

Whatever haze Matsukawa had fallen under earlier seems to dissipate with each thrust. He plants his knees firmly atop the futon and holds tight to Hanamaki’s thighs, rocking into him with a steady, building rhythm. Beneath him, Hanamaki’s neck arches and Matsukawa can’t stop himself from bending to run his tongue up the taught line of skin, lit by the faint drips of moonlight pooling over them from the room’s front window.

Hanamaki lets a desperate sound fall from his mouth and Matsukawa brushes away the fingers wrapped loosely around his cock to replace them with his own firm hand. Hanamaki jerks when he presses his thumb into the slit, feeling the wet pre-cum sticking to his palm. 

Neither of them will last much longer Matsukawa is sure, so he leans in, kisses Hanamaki sweetly, gently. He memorizes the feel of his body, of his soft lips pressing against his own. 

Muscles tense and warmth spills over his fist and then Matsukawa lets himself fall too. 

* * *

Hanamaki wakes to an arm around his waist, his body sore but warm.

He thinks maybe Matsukawa will wake up soon, press half-asleep kisses into the nape of his neck. Part of Hanamaki craves desperately for it, but the other part pushes himself up and out of Matsukawa’s hold, slowly as to not wake the other man up. 

In the small bathroom he washes his face, the water cool against his flushed skin. He dresses quickly, pointedly not admiring the planes of Matsukawa’s broad back or the prominent muscles of his arm where it curls around nothing more than an empty pile of blankets. 

He calls down to order up breakfast; hot tea and grilled fish and tamagoyaki. The woman that delivers it is older, smiling at him knowingly when he takes the tray from her with a silently mouthed ‘thank you.’ 

Hanamaki isn’t sure if it’s the clicking sound of the door closing or the fragrant, earthy aroma of genmaicha that causes the stirring sounds he can hear in the bedroom, but either way he turns a moment later to find Matsukawa leaning in the doorway watching him carefully, curls sleep-mussed and eyes puffy. 

“Morning,” Hanamaki greets, swallowing around the lump that forms in his throat. 

Matsukawa watches him closely, blinking and Hanamaki wonders if he’s still half asleep or else entirely focussed on him and nothing else. When Hanamaki looks past Matsukawa’s shoulder, trying to relax the tension he can feel already growing, he notices the reddened spot below Matsukawa’s ear, mottled against the usually golden skin of his neck.

Something clicks inside of Hanamaki and he turns abruptly back towards the table, kneeling down and breathing in the steam rising off the delicate, jade green tea pot.

_Don’t take this the wrong way—but there was a time when I thought maybe you and Matsukawa—_

Hanamaki jumps when Matsukawa sits down across from him, slumping into a cross-legged position and making a point to look as casual as possible. If it’s for Hanamaki’s benefit, if he can read between the lines that well—then Hanamaki isn’t sure if he should feel relieved or embarrassed. 

Really, they hadn’t drank that much sake last night—he’d been buzzed, but not too far gone for his decisions to not be of sound mind. 

Matsukawa picks up a set of chopsticks, reaching out for a perfect spiral of yellow, fluffy egg. 

It’s not like he hadn’t wanted to—he had, he _definitely_ had. But now, Hanamaki just feels— 

“Let’s go out today,” Hanamaki’s voice rings out through the silence of their room, sounding too loud in his own ears.

Matsukawa looks up, meeting his gaze. “It’s cold,” he says. “You hate the cold.”

There’s the tiniest hint of concern layered in his words, in his tone, that much Hanamaki is sure of. But Matsukawa won’t pry unless absolutely necessary—instead he’ll let Hanamaki handle to reins until he feels comfortable enough to open up.

But Hanamaki’s been through this before, they both have, and he’s not sure if he opens up that they’ll be able to work past it this time.

“Just for a little bit,” Hanamaki answers, turning his eyes down to the table, to the fingers clenched tight over his knees. “We could go to Shuzenji Temple and maybe get some lunch.” 

He does want to go to the temple—it would remind him of their time in Osaka together. But mostly he knows that it will serve as a distraction, some time for him to catch his breath.

Why—why does he have to feel this way? Like he’s drowning in guilt and overthought emotions when there’s clear, fresh air waiting for him right across the table. 

“Alright,” Matsukawa agrees with a nod. 

The fists he’d made in his lap unclench. “And then we can soak in the hot spring again.”

Matsukawa hums. “Sure.” 

For a second Hanamaki thinks that Matsukawa might ask about last night, comment on it in some way, but instead he just moves to pour them each a cup of tea. 

Matsukawa wants more, Hanamaki knows that—has known that for quite some time, hasn’t he? But Hanamaki isn’t sure if he can give him that, give him anything at all at this point. That hollowness in his chest had been feeling less and less empty—but really, the truth is he’s all used up.

It wouldn’t be fair to Matsukawa. 

And maybe it’s cowardly to pretend like nothing happened, but Hanamaki doesn’t know what he’d say to him anyways.

* * *

The walk to Shuzenji Temple is a short one, though the icy breeze makes it feel a bit more of a trek. The scenery helps, the red lacquered railing of Katsura Bridge reminds Hanamaki a lot of Sumiyoshi-taisha Shrine and the river below flows smooth and clear even in the winter weather.

Matsukawa stops every so often to take pictures—some of Hanamaki and others of things like the immense forest of bamboo they walk through along the river’s edge and a soba shop with a kitchie sign. Hanamaki manages to steel a couple of photos himself—his favorite ending up being the one of Matsukawa leaning over the bridge’s crimson railing, unaware of the camera pointed in his direction, cheeks pink from the wind. 

When they get to the temple, it’s bustling with people but not crowded enough to be uncomfortable. The trees surrounding the temple building are devoid of leaves, skeletal against the grey sky above, though there are several well-trimmed bonsai flanking the stone stairs leading to the entrance, vibrant green and towering almost as high as the temple’s intricatetiled roof. Moss clings to the stone lanterns and buddha statues littering the grounds and Hanamaki thinks that even with the cold temperatures, there’s still a distinct humidity in the air. 

They walk to the nearby Hie Shrine and an older couple offers to take their picture beneath the impressive torii gate, black and white lanterns hanging down with kanji painted over the thin paper. The cedar trees in the background are massive, towering too high to be fully captured in a single photo. Hanamaki rubs at his nose after seeing how red it looks in the picture and Matsukawa suggests finding a warm spot to eat. 

“I want crab and melon soda,” Hanamaki says and he probably sounds a bit petulant, but he’s starting to feel significantly less anxious than earlier in the morning so he just lets Matsukawa nod along indulgently. 

They find a cozy little shop with a small counter and a couple of booths tucked under the east window. When a younger woman comes to take their order Matsukawa asks for steamed snow crab, Katsudon, and of course melon soda. She nods a few times before scurrying off and Hanamaki can’t help but snort at the deep blush adorning her petite features. 

“Ladykiller,” he mutters under his breath with a smirk and Matsukawa just stares over at him with that usual, oblivious confusion of his. Then, when he tilts his head a bit, Hanamaki catches sight of that bruise on his neck and he turns away abruptly to stare out the window. 

They eat in companionable silence, the crab sweet on his tongue and the katsu warm and filling. Matsukawa taps his boot against the floor unconsciously to a song pouring in from a radio in the kitchen and Hanamaki can’t stop his fingers from following the same beat against the condensation on his glass. 

When it is finally time to return to the onsen, that little pit of uncertainty tries valiantly to claw its way back into Hanamaki’s stomach, but the promise of a relaxing soak is enough to keep it at bay for a little while longer. 

“Can you believe that in just two months we’ll both be thirty?” 

They’re lingering at the edge of the bath, arms folded over the stone tile in front of them. Hanamaki stares at the tanuki statue on the other end of the small outdoor patio. 

Matsukawa turns to him, just enough to side-eye, but keeps his voice as low as Hanamaki’s. “I don’t feel thirty, do you?” 

Hanamaki shakes his head where it’s pillowed in his damp arms. “Never. It’s still weird to think about though.”

“We should do something to celebrate such a monumental achievement.”

Hanamaki snorts. “I thought that’s what _this_ trip was.”

Matsukawa seems to mull that over for a minute before adding, “Oikawa and Iwaizumi went to Tokyo Disneyland.” 

“Correction: Oikawa _dragged_ Iwaizumi to Tokyo Disneyland.” Hanamaki smirks at the thought. “He said he was trying to recapture his youth.”

“Don’t even try to say that Iwaizumi didn’t love it,” Matsukawa mutters back.

“Oh he did.” Hanamaki finally lifts his head to watch the way Matsukawa’s hair curls a bit more with the steam, sticking against his forehead. “You’ve seen the pictures Oikawa has of him in those ridiculous ears right?” 

Matsukawa hums, nods. Then, “So you’re really not going to do anything for your birthday?”

It seems as though maybe this is a conversation Hanamaki shouldn’t have entered into, seeing as how invested Matsukawa is in getting something of a straight answer out of him.

“I dunno,” Hanamaki shrugs. “Maybe get dinner or something. It’s not that big of a deal—not like I’ve done that much other than just make it there, you know.”

No, he’s not done much at all—not much to mark off a list or a plan or anything like that. 

“That’s enough to celebrate, Hiro,” Matsukawa’s voice is low and rumbles through the meager space between them easily. “Just making it there.” 

Hanamaki, for reasons he can’t quite admit to, decides not to answer. Instead he turns his body, dipping lower into the water so it's just brushing against his chin. 

“We gonna have soba tonight?” he asks, by way of changing the subject. 

Matsukawa turns too, but the water doesn’t quite reach halfway up his own neck. “Didn’t take you for a tradition kind of person,” he answers rather dryly.

Hanamaki squints, furrowing his brows. “We have soba every new years—or at least all the one’s I’ve spent with you.”

“Yet you don’t think turning thirty deservers any kind of celebration.”

The words do something to Hanamaki, dig sharply into his chest. He flicks his gaze across the dark surface of the water over to Matsukawa, feeling his hands begin to shake where he’s clenched them against his sides.

“There’s fireworks tonight, over the river,” Matsukawa says, as though his previous statement hadn’t been made at all. “We should have a good view.” 

“I dunno,” Hanamaki answer slowly, his tongue curling around every syllable, his jaws uncomfortably stiff. “We’re almost thirty. Are we even gonna make it to midnight?” 

The sour tone widens Matsukawa’s lidded eyes and Hanamaki immediately regrets not taking Matsukawa’s attempt at distraction and just letting it go. 

“Hiro, what’s wrong?” 

Hanamaki blinks and when his vision clears he finds Matsukawa watching him closely, the concern in his features not at all hidden anymore.

“Nothing.” Hanamaki shakes his head, takes a step backwards over the warm stones beneath his feet. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Matsukawa looks as though he’s trying to fight back every urge to close the distance between them again, maybe reach out and pull Hanamaki in closer like he’d done the night before. “Are you—do you want to talk about—”

Despite the pleasant, biting heat of the water engulfing him, Hanamaki suddenly feels chilled to the core.

“I’m feeling a little dizzy,” he interrupts, sharp enough to draw attention from a few other men on the other end of the bath. “I think I’ll take a break, just go lie down for a bit.”

Matsukawa nods and adjusts his weight carefully, like he’s trying not to scare Hanamaki off. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, you stay and enjoy the hot spring some more,” Hanamaki rambles. “I’m sure you paid enough for this place, might as well get your money’s worth.” It comes out much more defensive than Hanamaki intends, but the words are already out of his mouth before he can do anything about it. 

Matsukawa lets him go, but Hanamaki can feel him watching knowingly the entire way back inside. 

* * *

Hanamaki’s expression eats away at Matsukawa.

_It’s not that big of a deal—not like I’ve done that much other than just make it there, you know._

Matsukawa knows, he knows exactly what Hanamaki means—but that doesn’t make it true. 

When Matsukawa returns to the room he finds Hanamaki burrowed into the covers of his futon, some drama playing on the tiny flatscreen in the corner and eyelids fluttering with dream-filled sleep. 

Later, when his eyes finally open again he actually manages a smile over at Matsukawa’s languid state on his own futon, entirely too engrossed in the dumb drama Hanamaki had picked. They stay like that, relaxing together until the room grows dark and their stomachs restless. 

Matsukawa lets Hanamaki order soba with fish cakes in hot broth and instead of eating at the table, they sit in the bedroom slurping noodles nestled in the bedcovers, eyes glued to the television screen like overgrown children. 

When the drama finally ends, Hanamaki complaining about the unsatisfactory finale, Matsukawa gathers up the down blankets and carries them out to the chairs on their small patio.

The thunder and crackle of fireworks start not long after, the clock on Matsukawa’s phone ticking ever closer to midnight. A particularly bright burst of orange and pink illuminate the darkness and kiss color and light against Hanamaki’s chilled skin and something reminiscent tugs at Matsukawa’s heart. 

He thinks probably he shouldn’t say anything at all. But new years are meant for new beginnings—and if he doesn’t say something now, Matsukawa is afraid he might never. 

“Hiro, I was thinking,” he starts, feeling his voice crack a little even in its lowest register.

Hanamaki turns from the nighttime display, eyes still reflecting the sparkling remnants of a starlike burst. “Hm?”

Matsukawa breathes in, the scent of smoky blackpowder and amber soap. “We should get married,” he says. 

He watches Hanamaki blink as the words settle in. “What?” His jaw drops, just a little. “Issei—”

“It doesn’t have to be right away, we can take our time, but—“

“You’re asking me to marry you,” Hanamaki interrupts bluntly, features still somewhat stunned.

Matsukawa grips onto the blanket wrapped around him a little tighter. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Hanamaki frowns. “You’re kidding, right?” 

Matsukawa shakes his head. “I wouldn’t joke about something like this.”

“You’re seriously—what, just like this?” Hanamaki gestures to the patio, flicks his hands between them both where they’re bundled with their legs pulled up to their chests.

Matsukawa isn’t sure if that’s amusement or something else in Hanamaki’s voice, but still he replies a bit wryly, “Would you rather I get down on one knee?”

Hanamaki’s frown turns into a scowl. “Do _not_ —”

“I’m serious, Hiro,” Matsukawa assures, wiping any trace of humor from his lips. 

“Issei—"

“Together we make plenty of money,” he explains, letting the carefully practiced words flow along like the smooth river current below. “We can get that nice house you used to talk about with the big back yard and a dog too, if you still want one.” 

“Issei—”

“Every time I’m in a relationship it never feels quite right, like something’s missing. But I think I’ve known all along what’s missing and I think you feel the same way too—”

A hand shoots out and grips Matsukawa’s wrist tight enough to ache. “Just stop, Issei,” Hanamaki says through his teeth. “Stop, _please_.” 

Matsukawa can’t bring himself to look away from that expression, so familiar but never before directed at him. “Hiro,” he whispers gently.

But Hanamaki just shakes his head. It’s hard to tell in the ever changing light from the fireworks and the moon’s faint glow, but his eyes look wetter than usual.

“It’s not going to happen,” he says lips pulling into a wavering smirk that looks more painful than anything. “I’m not going to marry you, I’m not going to marry anyone. It’s nice of you to offer—”

Matsukawa nearly flinches, pulling his wrist out of Hanamaki’s grasp. “I’m not just _offering,_ ” he argues, trying so very hard not to sound too offended. “Don’t make it sound like I’m offering because I feel sorry for you.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to get married to someone like me.”

The words ring in his ears, cancelling out the bursts of fireworks and the rapid beating of his own heart where it slams against his ribcage. 

“Someone like you,” Matsukawa repeats slowly, lost to the way Hanamaki’s eyes drop. His tongue feels numb, but it still moves at its own volition. “You mean someone I lo—”

“ _Issei!_ ” Hanamaki almost shouts his name, panicked and those eyes finally find Matsukawa’s again only this time there’s nothing more than fear reflected there. “Just—just drop it, okay?”

So, when the numbers on his phone hit midnight, Matsukawa does. 

In the morning they take the train back to Tokyo in silence. 

* * *

Four days after the new year Matsukawa asks Oikawa and Iwaizumi to coffee at that cutesy little place one station over from their new neighborhood.

“I asked him to marry me,” he says bluntly just as Oikawa’s taking his first scalding sip of macchiato. 

“You _what?_ ” Oikawa squawks, nearly spilling his drink if not for Iwaizumi’s quick intervention. 

“He said no,” Matsukawa explains calmly, watching Oikawa’s saucer eyes. “But—I think I’m going to ask him again anyways.”

“I’m sorry, can we just back up a minute here—” Oikawa hisses, grabbing rapidly for napkins from the dispenser just to give his shaking hands something to do. “You asked Makki to _marry you?_ At the onsen?”

“Yeah,” Matsukawa nods, not at all surprised by his friend’s reaction or behavior. “It was stupid and impulsive though—at first he thought I was kidding or just doing it to make him feel better or something. But I think in the end he was just scared.”

“He thought you were just settling for his benefit,” Iwaizumi interjects with some form of levelheaded understanding. 

“Something like that.”

Oikawa scowls. “You know Makki _likes_ you.”

“I know,” Matsukawa replies and his chest feels really light all of a sudden. “I like him too—actually, I love him.”

He’s met with silence, maybe not stunned, but at least mildly startled. And then—

“Of course,” Oikawa nods, eyes round and unblinking. 

“I don’t think he believes me though,” Matsukawa admits. 

“How long?” Iwaizumi clears his throat. “How long have you been in love with him?”

Matsukawa fiddles with the handle of his mug. “I don’t know. I think maybe—always.” 

“You have to tell him,” Oikawa says, pushing forward in his seat, the chair legs scraping a bit against the floor with the rapid movement. “It’s not that he doesn’t believe you. I think he doesn’t believe himself.”

“Confessing is hard.” Iwaizumi sounds quite a bit like he’s speaking from experience. His cheeks are a little ruddy and Matsukawa finds himself really appreciating both of their honesty and support. “Especially when it’s to your best friend.” 

“I’ll do that part,” he explains, considering he’s basically halfway there already. “All he has to do is accept.”

“If he wants to,” Oikawa adds. 

“If he wants to,” Matsukawa concedes with a nod.

Oikawa’s mouth breaks into an easy smile. “And of course he wants to, Mattsun.”

“Tooru, don’t talk in circles about this kind of thing,” Iwaizumi reprimands with little actual heat. 

Oikawa huffs, but sits back in his seat again. “I’m only trying to be realistic,” he says before turning back to Matsukawa, cheeks still round and gaze bright. “So, how are you planning to do it?” 

Matsukawa runs his hand atop the table, white with crawling aqua ivy decorating the laminate. No wonder Oikawa likes this place so much.

When he looks back up he finds two sets of eyes watching him curiously. He grins. “I think I’ve got an idea.” 

* * *

Hanamaki isn’t sure the last time he’s gotten a full night of sleep. It’s not just the dreams that are keeping him awake, it’s the sensation of regret and guilt gnawing away at an ever-growing hole in his chest.

He hasn’t spoken to Matsukawa since their trip to Shuzenji. 

It’s not as though he hasn’t tried, hasn’t typed out a hundred text messages, opened Matsukawa’s contact to stare down at the picture of him on Katsura Bridge. He has—probably too many times. 

Hanamaki isn’t sure what’s wrong with him exactly, but he’s pretty certain he’s narrowed it down to some twisted form of self-destructive behavior and an internal unwillingness to let himself be happy.

How fucking stupid. 

His room is still dark, just the barest hint of purple light filtering in through the closed blinds. Hanamaki blinks away the blurry dots floating over his vision and turns his head to look at the clock. _January 27th, 6:48 am_. 

He really doesn’t feel thirty. 

Next to him on the mattress his phone lights up with a few unread text messages, one from Tamiko and another from Oikawa with an abundance of unnecessary emojis. There’s an email notification from his parent’s shared account and another from Daisuke-san at work. 

It’s a Sunday, so at least he doesn’t have to go into the office, but Hanamaki isn’t sure how he’ll spend the day anyways. Maybe it would have been easier to have his birthday land on a Monday this year instead. 

His phone buzzes and Hanamaki reaches for it, expecting another slew of birthday texts, but instead blinks down at a message from Matsukawa. 

_Let’s get lunch, my treat. Ramen at the usual place?_

The ‘usual place’ hadn’t been usual in quite a long time, but still Hanamaki knows exactly where it is that Matsukawa is referring to. So he types out a reply and tries his best to ignore the knots in his stomach or lump in his throat.

* * *

Some hours later Matsukawa is waiting for him outside of the little hole-in-the-wall ramen shop nestled halfway between Meiji and Chuo University.

“Happy birthday,” Matsukawa says by way of greeting and amazingly his voice alone is enough to fill a bit of that hole in Hanamaki’s chest.

“Hey, thanks,” he replies, tugging at his gloves as Matsukawa holds the door open for him. 

Inside Hanamaki’s immediately warmed over by the comforting smell of broth and nostalgia. They sit at the counter like they used to do in university, though this time they only need two stools. Matsukawa orders Tantanmen and Hanamaki gets extra pork and for a few minutes everything feels almost like he can pretend things are simple again like they were back when they were barely twenty. 

Matsukawa slurps at his noodles, the broth staining his lips glossy and red until he licks it away. “Not as good as yours,” he stage-whispers and Hanamaki can’t stop his grin. 

The warm food and comfortable body next to him lull Hanamaki into something close to contentment, whatever tension had been slowly building up inside of him since new years somehow unravelling itself little by little with such a simple thing as a shared meal in a memory-filled place. 

He thinks if Matsukawa hadn’t texted him, what would he be doing now other than wallowing in self-doubt and regret?

_That’s enough to celebrate, Hiro. Just making it there._

Matsukawa had been right all along, hadn’t he? 

When they’re finished and Matsukawa’s paid the bill they step back outside, bundled up against the January chill even if the sun is trying its best to shine through a thick layer of clouds. Without a word Matsukawa starts to walk and, because he’s not quite ready yet to leave the man’s company, Hanamaki follows after. 

They walk along streets lined with tall platanus trees, their white bark glowing in the meager sunlight. They skirt Meiji’s main campus and over a block or two until Matsukawa stops rather abruptly in front of a tiny cake shop displaying a few intricately designed cakes and tarts in the front window. 

For a second Hanamaki expects him to say something, but instead Matsukawa just grabs his hand and tugs him inside. The place is too small to fit any tables, so they end up outside on a bench to indulge in a pair of oversized profiteroles. 

“I don’t feel thirty,” Hanamaki says, licking cream off his thumb and staring at a couple of white pigeons cooing on the sidewalk a few paces away. 

Matsukawa hums in response. “You’ll always be older than me.”

Hanamaki’s lips pull into a smirk. “But always younger than Oikawa.”

“And we can never let him forget that,” Matsukawa nods.

A few cars pass by on the street, wheels crackling over the asphalt. The pigeons startle with a swift breeze, wings carrying them up to the eaves of the closest building.

“Thanks, Issei,” Hanamaki says. “For lunch and everything.”

“Of course. It’s your birthday,” he replies like it’s obvious.

And maybe it _is_ obvious, maybe it’s always been obvious. Hanamaki can practically feel his heart in his throat as he swallows down the last of his dessert. 

“Look Issei, I’m really sorry about—”

“I’ve got something else for you too,” Matsukawa interrupts and Hanamaki turns to see his hand already fumbling around in the pocket of his wool coat. 

But when he pulls it back out, uncurling his fingers slowly, the air in Hanamaki’s lungs escapes in a single, foggy breath in front of him. 

In Matsukawa’s palm lays an Omamori pouch, familiar with its soft white fabric, teal flowers, and golden stitching. 

Hanamaki isn’t sure at all what to say, but the way Matsukawa’s hand shakes a little where it’s held between them he thinks all he wants to do is wrap his own fingers around that hand and never let go.

“You kept it,” he breathes out. “All this time?”

“All this time.” Matsukawa nods and there’s a burgeoning smile on his lips, growing wider when he catches Hanamaki’s eyes. “My prayer hasn’t quite come true yet.”

Hanamaki licks his lips, sticky with sugar. “It hasn’t?”

Matsukawa’s smile is so wide it wrinkles the corner of his eyes. “See, I’ve got this Grand Master Plan—”

Hanamaki can’t stop his snort of laughter, eyes burning and throat sore from holding everything back. “Issei, you sound ridiculous right now,” he croaks out. 

But Matsukawa isn’t phased at all, just nods like he’d been expecting those words the whole time. “Hiro, I love you,” he says in response. 

That irrational hole in Hanamaki’s chest suddenly feels like nothing but a pin prick.

“Yeah,” he agrees, leaning forward to smooth fingers over Matsukawa’s jaw. “Yeah, Issei—I love you too.” 

When Hanamaki kisses him Matsukawa latches onto his arms, pulling their bodies impossibly closer on the cold, metal bench. Hanamaki lets Matsukawa slide his tongue into his mouth, gentle and languid. They kiss until Hanamaki feels warm, almost too warm even if the air around them is still chilled with winter. 

Matsukawa only pulls away for a few short breaths, resting against Hanamaki’s forehead. “It would be nice to spend forever with someone, right?” he whispers between them. 

“Yeah, it would,” Hanamaki says, pressing a kiss against the warm lips in front of him. “The _right_ someone.”

* * *

This year when the cherry blossoms bloom, Matsukawa finds himself distracted again. Long lingering looks are for people in relationships. Sappy relationships, no less. Those hopelessly devoted, hopelessly— _hopeless_.

But this time, when Hanamaki blinks and moves to pluck a soft pink petal from Matsukawa’s hair, he thinks hopeless doesn’t even begin to describe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re:  
> [Shuzenji](https://stewieoverseas.com/shuzenji-guide/)  
>   
> [Hie Shrine](https://en.japantravel.com/shizuoka/shuzen-ji-hie-jinja-shrine/6143)  
>   
> To my readers: thank you for taking this journey with me. I am so fond of this story and these characters that it's hard to let go, but I feel very pleased with the final product. Thanks, as always, for your continued support! <3
> 
> [complete soundtrack](https://8tracks.com/h-lovely/mirror-flower-water-moon)  
>   
> Find me on:  
> [tumblr](https://h-lovely.tumblr.com/)  
>   
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/hlovelyyy)  
>   
> 


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